


Monster Hunters

by ValBirch



Series: Monster Hunters [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: monster hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-22 00:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8266205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValBirch/pseuds/ValBirch
Summary: Nearly four years after Eleven disappears, Mike decides to leave Hawkins for the summer. So he tags along with his sister while she works on her summer hobby—monster hunting. But, in the small town of Delphi, Indiana, they find more than they could have ever bargained for. a.k.a. Nancy is a boss, Mike is angsty, and obviously I bring Eleven back.





	1. The tiny town of Delphi

**Author's Note:**

> I think I have a problem. I had this tiny little idea yesterday that somehow turned into this monstrous chunk of writing. Someone send help. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Note: Rated for language (at this point) and maybe some other stuff later on.

Approximately halfway through his second year of high school, Mike Wheeler feels a frantic desire to escape from Hawkins, Indiana, a town that has long since grown too small for him. In Hawkins, too many people know his name. Mike craves the anonymity that comes with a new place; he wants to fall into a crowd of faces where he is just another boy, slightly taller than average, lean and lanky, with messy dark hair that curls over his ears, a faded spread of freckles across his pale cheeks, and soft brown eyes that are often oddly vigilant, an expression heightened by his pronounced cheekbones. In Hawkins, too many people know his story—or think that they do; the tale of that ‘troubled’ Wheeler boy who throws himself into schoolwork, eschews most social obligations, keeps straight As, but doesn’t show an interest in girls, even though, by his age, he really should be doing so. That ‘troubled’ Wheeler boy who, last year, was suspended for breaking the school bully’s nose, even though most agreed the kid had it coming. Sure, everyone in Hawkins might know the way Mike Wheeler _is_ , but they don’t know the half of _why_ he is that way, couldn’t possibly understand the chain of events in November 1983 that had led to him drifting into himself. And Mike, who now shrugs off the labels he’s been given—troubled, odd, queer—is sick and tired of all of it, all the crappy small-town gossip and leering that, for him, makes Hawkins claustrophobic. 

So, the day after classes let out in June of 1987, Mike packs a bag and asks him mom for a ride to Indianapolis, where he plans to spend majority of the summer with his older sister, Nancy, in the apartment she rents with her boyfriend who, if Mike has to admit, has gotten more tolerable over the course of the past three years. He supposes that facing a monster from another dimension is enough to turn even the douchiest former jock into a nice enough guy who, with more than a little help from Nancy’s tutoring, is now studying Economics at Purdue. 

What Mike doesn’t tell Karen during the hour and a half long drive out to Nancy’s place—what Nancy herself would never dream of revealing to her mother, or anyone else for that matter—is that they likely won’t be in Indianapolis for the entire summer. Because, in the fall of 1983, Nancy and Steve almost accidentally picked up a hobby that most people would consider unusual; a hobby that they sometimes phone up their good friend—although Mike sometimes suspects it’s more than that—Jonathan Byers to participate in. 

Nancy calls this thing that they do monster hunting. For her, Mike thinks, it’s somewhere in between a moral calling and a quest for vengeance; a way to feel like she’s making the world a better place while still searching for some closure to Barb’s untimely death; her empty casket funeral. For Steve, Mike knows, it’s an adrenaline rush, a way of expelling the rage and hatred he still feels towards his father. Mike can’t blame him, having had the displeasure of once meeting the senior Harrington. Once was enough for him.

Truthfully, Mike’s not sure how many monsters they’ve actually seen, let alone how many they’ve actually killed. Nancy and Steve are secretive about their hobby, for good reasons—the trunk full of weapons only one of many. But, from what he’s gathered, Mike knows there are more than a couple strange things lurking in quiet, sleepy places in the northeast and, one time, in Canada.

\--- 

“Mike, we’re going out on the road again,” Nancy says over dinner four nights after Mike arrives, “You can stay here if you want.” 

“What happened this time?” Mike asks, genuinely curious, not for a moment considering the option to stay behind, despite the fact that Nancy and Steve have a pretty decent living situation for two students; a fair-sized one bedroom place, walls decorated with artsy photographs, several of which Mike recognizes as Jonathan’s work. 

“A kid went missing in Delphi a few days ago,” Steve answers. His tone is nonchalant, as if such topics as missing children constituted regular table-talk. Although, Mike figures, for Steve and Nancy, that could very well be the case. “Nine years old,” Steve continues, “And he still hasn’t turned up. The police have no leads.” He pauses to take a swig of Coke, “And, apparently, the electricity in the town’s been fucked up.” Mike’s ears perk up at this final piece of information as Nancy shoots Steve a dirty look, as if Mike has never heard a curse word before. 

“You don’t think…” Mike begins, hesitating, unsure what he’s trying to communicate. There are several thoughts, too many feelings, swirling through his brain. 

“It’s worth checking out,” Nancy shrugs, poking at her spaghetti and returning her attention to Mike, “But these things usually turn out to be nothing. Kidnappings or accidental drownings or…well, I guess those things aren’t nothing,” her voice softens and she frowns, “But you get the point.” 

“But if the electricity stuff is true,” Steve leans back in his chair and whistles, long and low, “Three years of monster hunting and exactly five monsters killed. Maybe we’ll make it six.” Steve shakes his head and for a moment looks sceptical, “Who the hell would have thought?” 

“Technically only three summers,” Nancy corrects him. They don’t work on their hobby during the school year while Steve is studying hard and Nancy is focusing on her science degree, hoping to one day become a pharmacist. 

“I’ll come with you guys,” Mike says firmly through a mouthful of spaghetti, still a little awestruck at the thought of these two unassuming, preppy-looking, young twenty-somethings killing monsters that the world remains blissfully unaware of, “I want to.” 

“I don't know, Mike,” Nancy sighs, concern etched over her sharp features. 

“Oh come on,” Mike glares at her, “Why do you think I came to spend my summer with you guys? Why do you think I put up hearing you two go at it on the _first night_ I was here while I was _trying_ to sleep?” A small, impish grin lights up his features; he had taken a shot in the dark, having actually slept through the whole night uninterrupted, but apparently, his shot hit.

“Mike!” Nancy exclaims, rolling her eyes, “You’re such a shithead!” She pauses, looking over at Steve who’s laughing into his spaghetti. She grows serious again, “I just don’t…”

“Nancy,” Mike says, putting his fork down, “I’ve got this.” He knows why she’s hesitating; knows that she thinks he’ll get hopeful because of the electricity thing. But Mike isn’t sure he even remembers what hope feels like. 

“Let the little man come,” Steve grins up at Nancy and Mike, who promptly flips him off, earning a raised eyebrow from his sister. 

\--- 

Two days later, the trio checks in to a hotel in the tiny town of Delphi, Indiana, although hotel is probably far too generous a term for the place where they’re staying. The floors are grimy, the sheets are stiff despite the humidity that permeates the room, and Mike is sure that Steve caught a cockroach in the bathroom just after their arrival, though he refuses to admit it, probably not wanting to freak Nancy out. For a girl who’s squared off against nightmarish creatures, she’s still squeamish around bugs. 

They spend their first afternoon exploring the town under the fiery sun, sweating as they quietly observe conversations in ice cream parlours, restaurants, and gas stations, picking up snippets of discussion about the missing boy. On their first night, they watch with interest and anxiety-inducing familiarity as the lights in their hotel room flick on and off of their own accord, without any hint of a pattern. On the second day, they stay inside. For a better part of the morning, Nancy and Steve clean their guns while Mike sits by the window reading _Blood Meridian_. Their afternoon is spent planning for that evening when they will begin their search, starting in the forest where a little boy went missing about a week ago. For Mike, it all feels eerily familiar. He imagines, though he does not say such a thing aloud, that if this boy _is_ in the Upside Down, they have little chance of finding him alive. 

After dark, when the sun has fully disappeared behind the horizon and the cooler night air blows in on a soft breeze, they drive fifteen miles out from their hotel, pulling over on a stretch of rarely used road. Steve kills the engine as Nancy hops out of the car and goes to the trunk. She grabs a bag of gear, slinging it over her shoulder. Mike and Steve go to her side, where she proceeds to give Steve a handgun and place a flashlight in Mike’s hands, much to his chagrin.

“Mom would kill me if she knew I let you hold a gun,” Nancy tells him when he gives her an annoyed look.

“Who’s gonna tell her?” Mike rolls his eyes. 

“Give it up, Mike,” Nancy warns, “It’s enough that I let you come with us…against my better judgement.” She turns on her heel, gesturing for the boys to follow as she treads down a steep ditch into the line of trees. 

“How you feeling, kiddo?” Steve asks as they descend the ditch in Nancy’s wake. Though the question is genuine, Steve wears a teasing smirk on his face. 

“I’m taller than you,” Mike deadpans and Steve’s grin grows wider in the dim moonlight.

“But I’m stronger than you, _kiddo_.” Mike rolls his eyes and switches on the flashlight, brandishing it in Steve’s eyes, causing his smirk to rapidly disappear. 

“Will you two shut up and quit fooling around,” Nancy hisses at them as they begin to pick through the brush, boots crunching in the deadened leaves and plant matter underfoot. Nancy’s own flashlight guides the way, Mike providing extra light as they pick their way through the trees. Mike’s not entirely sure what they’re looking for—his instructions had been vague. Look for anything out of the ordinary. 

They’re out there, in the inky blackness, for forty-three minutes, by the count Mike’s keeping on his watch, when the chill starts to seep into his bones. Even in spite of the windbreaker he has tucked up and under his chin, Mike is shivering slightly. He’s about to open his mouth to complain, to ask Nancy for further instructions, when his attention is diverted away from the cold air and away from the boredom fuzzing the edges of his brain. 

There’s a noise, a cracking and crunching of twigs that comes from a few feet away—or at least that’s what it sounds like. Mike can tell, by the way Steve’s back stiffens a couple steps ahead of him, that he can hear it too. Nancy’s flashlight goes off first and Mike follows suite. In the total darkness that follows, Mike’s ears work in overdrive, latching on to every sound echoing around them. He hears the safety being flicked off of Steve’s gun, Nancy’s soft breathing, his own heart pounding, and, somewhere behind him, the snap of a twig. 

Mike whirls around, vaguely aware that Steve and Nancy have done the same. He toggles the switch of his flashlight back to the on position, bathing the five or so feet ahead of them, and the figure that stands there, in a garish yellow glow. He sees Steve level the gun towards their unexpected company; sees him hesitate. 

“What the fuck?” That’s Steve.

“Holy shit.” That’s Nancy. 

Mike, also looking at the figure in front of them, can’t speak, feeling as though the wind has been knocked violently out of his chest. His senses, so heightened a moment ago, seem to fail entirely, all at once. 

Standing there, in the thin beam of his flashlight, is a girl, close to his age, petite, with big, round eyes, widened in fear, and a small button nose. There’s something oddly familiar about her face. No, not familiar—unforgettable. Mike feels like he’s twelve years old again, wandering around Mirkwood in the pouring rain on the night Will Byers vanished. For a moment, he wonders, subconsciously, if this is like that Stephen King novel he finished reading a couple months ago; a monster that shape-shifts, only this one doesn’t take the form of your worst fears, but, rather, becomes your heart’s deepest desire, to catch you off guard before it comes in for the kill.

“Mike?” That’s the girl. 

Mike’s flashlight falls to the floor with a clatter and, for an instant before Nancy switches hers back on, the world falls into darkness. Mike doesn’t move. The girl takes a step forward, intently focused on Mike, as Nancy and Steve watch; one with amazement, the other with confusion. 

“Is that…?” Steve begins to ask quietly, never having met the girl who vanished from Mike’s life three years ago, disappearing into a dark cloud. 

“Eleven?” Mike asks hoarsely. 

“Yes.” Her voice is little more than a whimper. 

Mike sinks to his knees. 

\--- 

They’re back in the dingy hotel room, but the lights are no longer flickering. Eleven is seated on the edge of Mike’s bed, swallowed in fabric. She’s wearing one of Steve’s old _Hawkins Tigers_ t-shirts and a pair of Mike’s plaid pyjama bottoms, although they are far too long for her—she’s not much taller than he remembers. Despite the incorrect sizing, Mike notes from his spot next to her, the clothes are clean, which is a step up from the tattered and torn jeans and sweater she had been wearing when they found her—or when she found them; he still wasn’t quite sure. Vaguely Mike wonders where she’s gotten those clothes. The last time he saw her she was wearing his blue plaid jacket. 

With Steve in the shower and Nancy having run to the McDonald’s down the street for a late night meal, the two teenagers sit in awkward silence, Mike silently fuming and Eleven unsure what to do, what to say. 

“Mike?” she asks tentatively, “Are you okay?”

“Okay?” Mike echoes incredulously, his eyes widening, “No. I’m not okay. You _died_ , Elle!” He shakes his head, a sick expression written on his features, his lips quivering with unspoken words, “We had a _funeral_ for you.” His voice drops as he speaks these last words, almost to a whisper, as if saying them quietly will somehow erase the trauma that day inflicted on him.

“No,” Eleven whispers, “Not dead. Hiding. Fighting.” She fiddles nervously with the hem of Steve’s shirt, staring down at her knees. 

“Hiding?” Mike repeats with disbelief, desperation ringing in his words, “You were gone. I looked for you for months. I spoke into a walkie-talkie every damn night for a year, _begging_ you to come back and all I got was static. You were gone.” He’s trying not to cry. He wants to be angry, wants to yell at her for all the pain she caused him when she said goodbye to him all those years ago. But he also wants to wrap her in his arms, run his fingers through her hair, hanging limply to her shoulders now, whisper to her that he will protect her forever. Neither of these a viable option at this point, Mike opts for keeping his hands folded in his lap, his knees trembling. 

“Mike,” Eleven chokes out, her voice weak, “I was here.” Helplessly, she gestures around the room, desperate to make him understand that she had never truly gone anywhere. Desperate to explain that she had been watching him the entire time, had visited him whenever she could, watching from the dark place—the In-Between—willing him to comprehend that every cold shiver that had run down his spine, every cool breeze on the back of his neck, every strange shadow across his line of sight, had been her reaching out for him, protecting him, keeping close to his warmth while she fought. 

“I don’t believe you,” Mike’s voice is cold and it stings her to the very core, making her chest tighten and her lungs feel empty, “If you were around you would have seen what I went through. You wouldn’t have let me believe you were gone for so long. Do you know what that did to me?” 

“Yes,” Elle replies. She knows. She knows about everything; she’s been there for it all—the crying, the rage, the therapy, the distance that’s grown between him and Will. She knows that Mike secretly resents Will and that this secret is beginning to slip. She knows that Lucas doesn't call as much these days and that Dustin’s jokes, at some point, just stopped doing the trick. 

“Then…why?” Mike’s voice breaks, “Why didn't you come back?” His head goes into his hands, elbows propped up on his still shaking knees.

“I’m sorry,” Eleven croaks, “Mike…please.” She longs to reach out and touch him, but she’s so afraid he’ll shrink away from her. 

“And why are you here now?” Mike asks, ignoring her pleas, though they send an ache through his heart; something he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

“Not strong enough,” she says meekly, “I can’t fight anymore.” 

“Fight what?” Nancy asks as she manoeuvres through the door, balancing three bags of fast food and a tray of drinks in her arms. Eleven goes silent, her mouth suddenly dry and her stomach aching for food. But there are more important things to worry about. How does she tell them? How does she explain _why_ she came back to them? 

“Monsters,” she breathes, “I…there…” She sputters into silence, the words she needs still not part of her lexicon. Nancy smiles encouragingly as she walks over to where Mike and Eleven sit, grabbing a piece of paper and a pen from the hotel bedside table on her way over. 

“Here,” Nancy says, “Try drawing.” The corners of Eleven’s mouth turn up ever so slightly in thanks as she takes the offered implements and draws a thick line across the center of the page, horizontally while Mike and Nancy watch attentively.

Eleven points to the blank space above the line. 

“Here,” she looks up at them, “Mike. Nancy. Steve.” 

“Our world?” Nancy asks, just to be certain she’s following. Eleven nods. 

“There,” her finger traces down the page, resting below the line, “Upside Down. Demogorgons.” 

“Did you say…” Nancy begins, her heart clenching at the recognition of a plural, but Eleven silences her with a look and a curt, solemn nod. She takes up the pen once more and draws an X in the middle of the line. 

“Gate.” Eleven informs them. 

“There’s no gate,” Mike sighs, remembering the time he forced Dustin to break in to the abandoned Hawkins Lab with him, searching for a way to get to the Upside Down. “The gate closed when you…” he cannot bring himself to say _when you sacrificed yourself, when you died_. Eleven ignores him and draws another X less than an inch away from the first. 

“Gate,” she repeats. This happens several times, until the line across the page is covered in dark X marks. 

“How is that possible?” Mike looks concerned. Eleven shrugs. She doesn’t know how it’s happening, but she knows she can no longer contain the leaks, the cracks breaking between the dimensions. It’s become too much for her to handle alone. 

“This is bad, isn’t it?” Nancy breathes. Again, Eleven nods. Nancy purses her lips. 

“Well,” she sighs, “Nothing we can do about it now, I guess. We should eat…” She glances back at Eleven’s drawing and Mike can tell she’s distracted, anxious. “I’ll go get Steve.” Nancy slips across the room and into the bathroom to pull Steve from the shower. 

“You fought by yourself all this time?” Mike asks, looking at Eleven, his voice softer and his eyes kinder, more like Eleven remembers him. She shakes her head.

“Had help,” she says, “Hopper.” 

“Hopper knew about you?” Mike feels the anger well up inside him again, “But he stood there, at your…at your funeral. He…” 

“He gave me food,” Eleven informs him, “Don’t be mad. Please.” Mike takes a deep breath and nods, willing himself to calm down. 

After they eat, in tense silence, Mike suddenly feels exhausted, emotionally drained. He wonders how they’ll sleep tonight, assuming he’ll end up sharing a bed with Steve instead of having his own like the previous night. He wants to sleep more than anything, but Nancy and Steve are a flurry of activity. So, for the time being, Mike settles for curling up into a chair by the window, returning to his book. Eleven remains seated on the bed, her eyes skirting around the small, cramped quarters. Every so often, Mike, from the corner of his eye, can see her looking at him. He pretends not to notice, pretends to move his own eyes across the pages, which he turns every so often, not absorbing more than a few sentences on each. 

Leaning against the headboard of the bed nearest to the door, Steve is the one to finally make the call to Jonathan Byers, who’s been living his dream at NYU for the past couple of years. Nancy sits beside him, her hand resting on his thigh. 

“Jonny, it’s Steve.” 

“Steve? It’s past midnight, man. What’s up?”

“You planning on coming down to Hawkins any time soon?” Steve asks. Nancy squeezes his leg, as if to say ‘stop beating around the bush.’ Steve nods at her while Jonathan’s voice sounds in his ear.

“Gonna be visiting my mom in August, why?” There’s a hint of concern growing in that familiar voice. 

“You might wanna think about moving that trip up a bit.” 

“Is Nancy okay?” Full-fledged concern. Steve smiles into the receiver, despite the situation that this evening has brought to their attention. 

“Yeah man, Nancy’s fine. She misses you, though. But we’ve got bigger problems. Are you sitting down?” 

An hour later, Jonathan Byers has a suitcase packed and is practically flying out of his dorm room towards his beat up old Chevy, towards Hawkins, towards a monster he thought he’d never have to see again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Comments and feedback are oh so welcome. This will likely be a short chaptered fic. Hope you enjoyed it and thanks for reading!
> 
> Cheers,  
> Val <3


	2. When the lights go out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the lights go out in Delphi, creatures come out of the darkness. 
> 
> a.k.a some real monster slaying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I wasn't going to update today because I was going to watch baseball instead of finishing this chapter. But baseball is far too stressful for me right now. *silently roots for the Blue Jays* 
> 
> Please enjoy this update which features more badass Nancy, which may be my new favourite thing to write.

Eleven curls up in the warmth of Nancy’s bed, not noticing, in the same way the other three occupants of the room do, the stiffness of the sheets or the cardboard-like quality of the mattress. To her, the sheets clasped between her hands are as soft as those she remembers from her week in Mike’s basement, even without the soft vanilla scent she so desperately misses. The pillow against her cheek, though thin, is cool and gentle; a welcome change from her own bony arms, which for the past four years have been as close to a pillow as she had been able to get. Not since her last encounter with Mike had she slept like this; not since she had rested her head against the pillows inside the castle of blankets he had built for her. No, for the past four years, she’s been mostly sleeping on the ground, hidden away from the monsters that hunted her while she took a moment’s pause from hunting them. Sometimes, if she could safely manage it, she had crawled to and curled up in the version of Mike’s bed she had found in the Upside Down—empty, broken, and icy. This world, the one she had almost forgotten, was so much better; it’s colours, even in the darkness of night-time, the sights and sounds of real human life all around her. This is a world worth saving, no matter what the risk, no matter what the cost.

From where she lays, Eleven can hear Nancy’s delicate breathing beside her; can feel the bed shift ever so slightly as Nancy stretches out, searching for just the right comfortable position in which to doze off. Unconsciously, Eleven slides across the mattress, closer to her, their knees meeting somewhere in the middle of the bed. For a moment, Eleven lets herself think of that word Mike had said all those years ago. Sister. 

“Are you comfortable?” Nancy whispers into the darkness between them. Though they are inches apart, Eleven can only just discern the contours of the pretty face across from her, dimly see the sparkle of Nancy’s eyes. 

“Yes,” she returns in a hushed voice, “Thank you.” 

A few feet away, from the other bed, the choking sound of a loud snore peals through the silence, causing Eleven to tense up, a small gasp tumbling from her parted lips. Nancy immediately reaches out and places an arm over her shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

“It’s just Steve,” Nancy explains, the confidence and solace offered in her voice making Eleven relax, “He sounds like an alien when he sleeps.”

“Alien?” Eleven echoes, unsure if this is another word for monster, for that is what comes to her mind when she hears Steve’s sleeping noises.

“Yeah,” Nancy replies, “Kind of like a person, but from another planet. Mike can probably explain it better than I can. Don’t worry about it though—just focus on getting some sleep.” Nancy’s thumb gently draws circles on Eleven’s shoulder, through the fabric of the old and borrowed t-shirt she wears. Years of exhaustion and weariness wash over Eleven in that moment and, knowing she is surrounding by friends, she closes her eyes and lets sleep take her. 

Mike, from his spot beside Steve, whose snoring is, in his opinion, beyond alien, listens in on this exchange and can’t help but to smile as he too closes his eyes and drifts off into a deep sleep, warmed by the presence of the enigmatic and inscrutable girl who now shares a bed with his sister. 

\---

After what feels like only moments, Mike wakes up to what he’s sure is a rhythmic tapping noise outside the window of their hotel room. Yet, as he lays still in the bed, ears strained in the darkness, there is utter silence, broken only by Steve’s occasional snores. Mike turns over and glances at the alarm clock that rests on the bedside table between his own bed and the one where Nancy and Eleven are sleeping. It’s almost four in the morning; giving him only an hour or so until the sun starts to rise. The thin curtains of their east-facing room keep out very little sunlight so Mike knows that if he wants any more sleep, now would be the ideal time. 

Instead, his thoughts float to the girl laying only a few feet away from him, keeping him awake. She’s there, a seeming impossibility in every way; but he could probably reach across the gap, over the stained blue carpet, and touch her, prove to himself that he’s not, just now, waking up from an extended dream. She’s there, alive like she has been for all these years, just as he had believed. 

_“Michael,” his mother’s voice sounds softly outside his bedroom door, accompanied by her gentle knocking, “You have to go to school.” Mike doesn’t answer. He hears the door click and then creak open. His mother’s footsteps are muted by the carpet, but he feels her sink onto the edge of his bed right by his pillow. Her hand reaches out and rests on his shoulder, though he remains buried underneath his comforter._

_“I can’t,” Mike mumbles, “I’m sick.”_

_Karen sighs, trying to stave off the defeated feeling that’s been working its way into her chest for the last few days. It’s been over a week since she caught sight of her son, sitting in the back of an ambulance in his school’s parking lot; over a week since she learned about the strange girl who had been living in her basement without her knowledge. Michael’s barely been eating, picking at his food, no matter what she makes. She’s barely slept, because she can hear him at night pacing his bedroom floor, sometimes creeping down to the basement. She can hear the static of his walkie-talkie at all hours of the night and she’s at a loss for what to do._

_“I know this is difficult, sweetheart, but…”_

_Mike’s head appears from underneath the blankets. His eyes are red and puffy—he’s been crying._

_“You don’t understand,” he says, “Elle’s gone because I couldn’t keep her safe.”_

_He’s just a child—a child she raised, distraught over the fact that he couldn’t save a little girl from…from what, she wasn’t even sure. Karen had pieced together most of the story bit by bit over the past week, first, sitting Nancy down and demanding an explanation, then marching over to Joyce Byers’s house to fill in the gaps. But Michael was reluctant to speak with her, to tell her anything about why this girl, Eleven, had been so special._

_Because this girl that her son was mourning, Eleven, had certainly been something special._

_“Michael,” she says, brushing the hair away from his forehead, “Sometimes…” Karen pauses, searching for the right words, “Sometimes the things we love don’t need our protection. Sometimes they don’t want it. Like the way you didn’t need my protection last week. You were brave enough to face something dangerous without it. Eleven was the same.”_

_“She_ is _the same mom,” Michael tells her, “She’s not in the past. She’s not dead.”_

Mike sits up in bed, stretching his back and certain the sleep has escaped him for the night. He was right about Eleven being alive, even if he had started to doubt himself after six months of radio silence; even though, after a year, he had asked Joyce and his mother to help organize a memorial for her; even though, after two years, he had taken down her blanket fort in the basement; even though, after three years, he had decided to try, unsuccessfully, to start all over again. 

Maybe, Mike thinks as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, the mattress groaning under his movement, maybe this is a different kind of starting over. Mike stretches out the stiffness in his legs and stands, heading over to the washroom. Pausing briefly, he glances at Eleven, fast asleep in bed. She looks so innocent, like a regular kid—only, they’re not kids anymore, he reminds himself. He’s turning sixteen this year, and assumes Elle isn’t that far off, based, scientifically speaking, on the curves he had happened to catch sight of underneath the baggy clothes she had borrowed from him and Steve. As he splashes cold water on his face over the bathroom sink, Mike wonders how this changes the dynamic of their relationship, whatever that may be. Does he still love her, the way he thought he once did? 

Sighing, Mike towels the water from his face, paying no heed as the lights overhead flicker briefly. He contemplates bringing Eleven back to Hawkins, if that’s even a safe possibility. He imagines, a sensation of excitement welling in the pit of his stomach, the way Lucas and Dustin—and even Will—will react when they see her. Maybe she’ll be enough to mend the cracks that have grown between them? Suddenly, those thoughts, and Mike himself, feel too big for this cramped hotel room. He needs air. 

Mike slips into his worn pair of black and white Chucks and, as stealthily as he can manage, opens the door to their room, pausing when he hears the deep creak of the hinges. Nancy shifts in her spot, but there’s no other discernible movement, so Mike carries on, down the dimly lit hall. He passes the front desk, noting its emptiness and, for a moment, he contemplates ringing the bell to ask the night clerk for a cigarette on his way out. He’s never smoked, though he’s thought about it more than a handful of times; and tonight, his nerves are shot. But he resists the impulse, instead walking out the front door and into the cool night air. Besides, he thinks, the clerk is probably asleep like every other sane person in this godforsaken town. 

There’s a full moon overhead and stars blazoned across the clear sky as Mike treads a path towards Steve’s car and pulls himself up and onto the trunk, leaning against the rear windshield and glancing up at the inky sky. Still, Eleven clouds his mind. What had she been living through these past four years? He feels almost sick wondering at it; almost wishes she hadn’t come back to make him remember all the feelings of guilt he had pushed to the back of his mind. 

Mike vaguely becomes aware of the sound of rustling from the line of trees surrounding the hotel. A chill runs down his spine as he realizes, with a start, that the world has somehow gotten darker. Mike sits bolt upright and looks around him, seeing nothing. It’s the very nothingness that worries him, for the lights in and around the hotel have gone out, bathing the building in ominous darkness. Mike tries to convince himself he’s being paranoid; that this is just a routine power outage—but he knows better than that, even if most people don’t. Slowly, Mike slides off the trunk of the car and turns his body, so that his back is to the trees. He attempts to open the trunk, thinking only of arming himself, but it’s locked. It’s then that Mike notices, beyond his own pallid and warped reflection in the rear windshield, a larger than life figure emerge from the trees no more than fifty feet away, stalking towards him on four thick legs. 

“Shit,” Mike breathes. He tries the trunk again with sweaty palms. Still locked. And that… _thing_ is getting closer. Mike looks over his shoulder and he can see the fangs in its mouths, the scales glistening on its necks in the moonlight. 

Only one word rings clearly through his mind, over the blood pounding in his ears: _Thessalhydra._

Mike wonders, briefly, if this is how he’s going to die. Then, without warning, the adrenaline kicks in. It’s the same dumb bravery that caused him to ride his bike directly into the path of speeding van, the same stupid courage that made him yell at full grown men with guns pointed at him when he was twelve-years-old. With the car locked, there’s no way to get to the guns in the trunk and the guns are the key to his survival. Mike thinks about breaking a window, remembering the crowbar that’s laid out across the floor in the backseat—it's better than no weapon at all. And, as the fear seeps out of his mind, replaced by an inexplicable clarity, he remembers that there’s also a gun in dashboard.

Swiftly, Mike moves around to the driver’s side of the car and makes a fist, pulls it back, and prepares to release. But he stops short, just as a gunshot rings out in the night air. The monster rapidly closing in on his location stops, its necks tensing, and lets out an ear-piercing howl—seven howls, in perfect unison, to be exact. 

Mike looks over to his right, towards the hotel, where Nancy is standing, her gun raised, her face a mask of calm and collectedness. Eleven stands behind her, eyes wary, looking nervously at Mike, who wants to yell at her to go back inside, somewhere safer. Nancy lets off another shot, hitting the monster again, between the eyes of another of its heads. 

“Mike! Catch!” Steve is running towards him, tosses him the keys to the car, which Mike catches with deftness that surprises even himself and would sure as hell make his gym coach pass out with shock. He wastes no time in unlocking the trunk and popping it open, grabbing himself the biggest gun he lays eyes on and letting a stream of bullets loose, equal parts horrified and awestruck as black blood spills from the creature’s chest. By now, Steve has reached his side and is pulling out a can of gasoline. 

“One more time, Nance!” Steve shouts as he uncaps the gasoline, and another shots rings out in the night. Another shot between another set of eyes. That’s three down; three grotesque heads lolling around as the creature paws the ground, sending up clouds of dust and gravel. 

“My girl!” Steve shouts gleefully, “You’re a babe, Nance!”

“Steve!” Nancy yells back, irritation in her voice, “Focus!”

Mike, following his sister’s example for perhaps the third time in his life, aims and fires, taking out another set of eyes as Steve approaches the monster. One of it’s mouths, lined with jagged black fangs, lunges towards the older boy and, for a moment, Mike looks away, afraid. There’s a crunching sound, like that of broken bones, and when Mike returns his gaze to the monster he sees one of its heads twisted at an unnatural angle, neck broken. 

_Eleven._

“Elle,” he calls out over his shoulder, “Stay away.” 

Steve dances around the creature, dousing it with liquid gasoline. He lights a match, then another, then a third, balancing them between his fingers. When he’s a safe distance away, he tosses them at the gas-soaked monster, writhing against what Mike only then realizes is Eleven’s forceful powers keeping it in place. Its body becomes slowly engulfed in flames, thick black smoke curling up and blocking the moonlight. The lights around them flicker back to life. 

“Hooooolyyyyy,” Steve yips as he bounds back to Mike’s side, “Did you see that?!" The exhilaration in his voice quiets when he sees Mike's shaking knees, "You okay, Mike?” 

With the adrenaline making a rapid exit from his body, Mike falls to the ground. Nancy, and Eleven hurry over to him, Eleven’s nose profusely leaking blood, which she wipes away on the hem of Steve’s old shirt. 

“Mike,” Nancy groans, “Are you okay?” She falls to her knees beside her brother, wrapping him in her arms. 

“I’m fine,” Mike mumbles, pushing her away, regaining the feeling in his legs. His attention flies to Eleven and he looks at her with accusatory eyes. “Elle, what were you thinking?” His tone is angry.

“Mike, chill,” Steve says softly, “She helped us. Made our job a hell of a lot easier.” His eyes cast back over to the burning body of the Thessalhydra and a grin lights up his face, “Nice work, little lady.” 

“No!” Mike nearly shouts, frustration building in his chest, “She could have gotten hurt. She could have gone…” 

“Mike…” Nancy begins, interrupting him, but Eleven holds up her hand to silence them, exuding immense power in a simple gesture. 

“Leave,” Eleven casts her eyes around anxiously, “We need to leave.” The anxiety in her eyes is mismatched with the strong and assertive tone of her voice; it’s unlike anything Mike has ever heard come from her lips before. 

“Are there more of those things?” Nancy asks. Eleven nods, her eyes welling with tears. Mike feels the urge to go to her, to wrap his arms around her and protect her at all costs. He feels ashamed, sitting there, weak and useless. 

“I was keeping them away,” she says, “Now, I’m here and it’s easier for them.”

“To get here too?” Another question from Nancy. Another nod from Eleven. 

“Steve, go get the bags,” Nancy instructs, “Hurry. Before someone else wakes up and sees….this.” She gestures helplessly towards the still-burning carcass that’s slowly disappearing into the darkness. 

\--- 

When Steve starts the car, the radio comes to life and the sounds of a news broadcast fill their ears. 

_“…other news: All over central Indiana tonight we’ve been seeing problems with the electrical grid. Power is out completely in the West-end of Indianapolis. I-65 and I-69 are totally dark, folks, and towns across the central portion of the state are reporting blinking traffic lights. Remember folks, approach intersections with caution and treat them as a four-way…”_

Nancy turns the volume dial to zero, her face sick. Most of the car ride is spent in silence, with the exception of Steve asking if anyone wants to stop to use the washroom or get a coffee. After a chorus of ‘nos’, he drives on. They don’t bother stopping at Nancy and Steve’s place in Indianapolis, instead heading right to Hawkins. It’s almost seven a.m. by the time Steve pulls up and into the Wheeler’s driveway and the four passengers slip out of the car, tired, sweaty, and on edge. 

Karen, who had been quietly sipping her coffee on the porch with the morning paper, stands and hurries over to the car with raised eyebrows and a face full of concern.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, confused, “Michael? Are you okay?” One look at her son’s grim face gives Karen all the answer she needs and her heart sinks into her stomach. 

“Mom,” Mike grasps Eleven’s hand tightly, “This is Elle. She’s going to stay here for a bit.” 

Without waiting for a response, Mike pulls Eleven inside and upstairs. Eleven wants to stop him; she wants to offer Mrs. Wheeler her hand and say ‘nice to meet you,’ but she’s so tired that she allows Mike to usher her into his bedroom, where he proceeds to tuck her into his blankets.

“You can rest up here,” he tells her, “This afternoon we’ll go see the guys and tell them what’s happening.” Eleven, asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow—which smells like vanilla and Mike, doesn't hear him, though, even she had, she wouldn’t have objected to such a plan. 

Outside, Karen gapes after her son, then turns, open-mouthed to Steve and Nancy, her arms held out, palms upturned, gesturing her desire for an explanation. 

“Long story,” Nancy sighs, “And I need a shower. Is Dad home?”

“No, but…” Karen begins, but Nancy cuts her off.

“Good, then Steve, you can come too,” Nancy makes a move towards the door, but Karen fixes herself in Nancy’s path, arms crossing over her chest, coffee forgotten on the windowsill. 

“Just a second,” Karen says, her voice raising a bit above its normal volume, “Nancy Wheeler. Explain what is going on. Now.”

“You won’t get it Mom,” Nancy rolls her eyes, “Just leave it alone.”

“I know a lot more than you think I do,” Karen narrows her eyes. A slab of tension falls between mother and daughter, fire in each other their eyes. 

“You go shower, Nancy,” Steve suggests, stepping between them, “And I’ll explain things to Mamma Bear.” He grins a winning grin at Karen and asks if she has any more coffee. 

\---

When Lucas answers the doorbell that afternoon, he doesn’t expect to see Mike—who’s supposed to be in Indianapolis—standing on his porch looking apologetic. He doesn’t expect to see a timid and frail looking girl behind him in a green dress he recognizes as Nancy’s. And Lucas especially doesn’t imagine that tears will well up behind his eyes when Mike looks at him, quietly and with defeat, and whispers, “I’m sorry.” 

“We’re brothers,” Lucas says, clapping Mike on the shoulder, hoping that these words convey the strength of his feelings, the strength of their bond, “Always have been. Always will be.” He pulls back and looks at the girl behind his best friend. 

“Welcome home, Elle,” Lucas holds out his hand, “We missed you.” 

Dustin’s reaction is different. Eleven cringes, stiffens, when he wraps his arms around her and lifts her high into the air, apparently not expecting her to be so light. She sails over his head, her freshly washed and brushed hair fluttering in the wind. She’s gotten better at controlling herself, imagining that four years ago, such an action would have gotten Dustin thrown across the room, intentionally or not. 

“You’re alive,” Dustin laughs joyfully as he sets her down and looks her in the eye, “Where the hell have you been?” 

“Fighting,” Eleven replies, causing the light to vanish from Dustin’s eyes, replaced by an expression of soft concern. 

“Fighting what?” The question is asked to her, but Mike cuts in.

“Can we come in?”

“Yeah,” Dustin nods and makes room for them to enter, “Good timing. My parents just left for a movie.” Mike, Eleven, and Lucas all crowd into the small entryway of the Henderson home, kicking off their shoes. Lucas begins to ascend the stairs, but Dustin calls on him to stop.

“My room’s a mess,” he says, shaking his head, “Let’s hang in the living room.”

“I’ve seen your room before,” Lucas smirks, “I’m used to the pigsty.” 

“Yeah, but we have a lady with us,” Dustin gestures towards Eleven, who feels her cheeks grow warm at being called a lady. 

“Guys,” Mike mutters, “Kind of important things to discuss.” The boys nod and Dustin leads the group to the living room, where Eleven plants herself on the sofa next to Mike, careful to keep a bit of distance between them, unsure if he’s still angry with her. 

“I’ll call Will,” Lucas announces, grabbing the phone from the coffee table and dialling the familiar number to the Byers’s house. 

\--- 

Meeting Will is, without a doubt, the strangest part of Eleven’s day. Meeting Will is like meeting a ghost. Eleven looks at his face, grown-up from the face of the boy she helped find in the Upside Down four years ago; more mature yet still with a boyish charm. 

“Eleven?” Will’s jaw drops when he enters Dustin’s living room. She perks up from her spot next to Mike, where she had, unknowingly, drifted to leaning against him, not that he objected. 

“Hi,” she smiles at him, shyly, standing up and reaching her hand out, closing the gap between them. “Hi Will.” 

Will takes her hand and, immediately, a shock runs up Eleven’s arm, cold and tight. She can tell Will feels it too; his eyes grow wide and his lips part in surprise, but he quickly straightens her expression and looks at her with pleading eyes. Eleven purses her lips, but returns, in silence, back to Mike’s side. 

When all the boys are gathered and comfortable, the pizza having been delivered and the pop retrieved from the basement, Mike begins his story. He starts with Steve and Nancy; their summer hobby, their trunk full of guns. Then, he recounts his adventure in Delphi; the missing boy, the search that led to them finding Eleven. Finally, Mike tells them about the Thessalhydra; how Nancy shot it between numerous sets of eyes, how he managed to do the same—he even narrates the part where Eleven broke one of its necks so that Steve could set it on fire. By the end, Mike is certain that this story is even better, more fantastic than any campaign he’d ever planned as Dungeon Master—when the boys used to play Dungeons and Dragons. 

“Holy shit,” Dustin is wide-eyed, amazed.

“That’s insane,” Lucas matches his expression, “Your sister and Steve kill monsters? And you shot a Thessalhydra? And…holy shit.” There’s excitement rising in his voice. 

“What can we do?” Dustin asks, a thrilled fire dancing in his eyes. 

“Look guys,” Mike says, his face drawing into a serious expression, “I didn’t call on you guys to help us. Hell, I don’t even think it’s the best idea if you do. It's not safe and I don’t want you guys to put yourselves in danger for me. Not after how I’ve acted.”

“Shut up for a second, Mike,” Dustin rolls his eyes, “First of all, we should apologize to you. You knew Eleven was alive and you didn’t want to give up on her, but we all let you down. That was a shitty thing for us to do.”

“Yeah,” Lucas echoes with a nod, “And if you’re fighting monsters, there’s no way we’re not helping you.” 

Only Will remains quiet, staring out of the living room window, distracted. Only when he’s prompted by Dustin does Will agree that fighting monsters sounds like an excellent way to pass the time and bring their broken band together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My huge & sincerest thanks to everyone who read the first chapter. I'm overwhelmed by your positive responses! I do hope you'll continue to read and enjoy this story. Please leave your thoughts, feedback, and comments as I appreciate it all.
> 
> Next chapter: Jonathan reunites with Nancy and Steve; Eleven tells Mike a secret


	3. Something in the water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan returns to Hawkins. Eleven reveals a secret—and keeps another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, this one's a long one. Enjoy!

Jonathan Byers spends most of his thirteen and a half hour drive back to Indiana thinking about Nancy Wheeler—it’s difficult not to, especially each time the rough scar tissue at the center of his palm grates against the leather of his steering wheel. The thoughts not dedicated to Nancy, to her strength and her smarts, her lips and her eyes, are instead spent primarily on Hawkins; on imagining exactly what he’s driving towards. Jonathan had almost not wanted to believe Steve when, earlier that morning on a rushed phone call he had revealed that Eleven was back. As glad as Jonathan was that the enigmatic girl had somehow managed to find her way back from¬—well, he wasn’t exactly sure _where_ from—Jonathan had developed, the instant Steve’s voice sounded in his ear, a foreboding feeling in the pit of his stomach that had been stewing there since beginning that thirteen and a half hour trip. 

Normally, the trip from New York to Hawkins takes him fifteen hours because, normally, he stops for a quick nap and a burger somewhere over Pittsburgh. But these aren’t normal circumstances, so Jonathan eschews sleep and snacks only on the stale granola bars he had managed to grab on his way out of his apartment. Truthfully, he could have probably made the trip in twelve hours, including a stop for gas if, once he had crossed into Indiana, the traffic lights hadn’t been acting up, causing backed up cars in morning traffic and beads of sweat to form on his hairline, despite the A/C running in his car. The sight of those blinking lights, of haywire electricity, makes his stomach twist—partly in remembered pain and partly in anticipation. 

NYU has been treating him well; his photography program is full of freaks and geeks, so Jonathan blends in well with the crowds in his classes. For the first time in his life, he feels as though he’s excelling at something. Still, he covets the warmth of summer because it means heading back to Indiana to spend time with his friends—an experience Jonathan never imagined he’d have, though perhaps one that is less unlikely than the way in which he spends time with those friends. Monster hunting, like something out of a crappy B-movie. There’s Steve, the Adonis-like jock; Nancy, the good-girl with a tough streak she lets few see; and him—he’s not sure how he fits in—the guarded, secretly sarcastic one, the misanthropic loner with a soft side? No matter; it’s a dynamic that has worked for them. 

There are moments, during that thirteen and a half hour trip, when Jonathan’s thoughts wander away from Nancy and away from Hawkins to Steve Harrington who, had you asked him several years earlier, wasn’t really worth a thought at all. But Jonathan and Steve had spent the last three summers on the road together, bonding over their love for Nancy, their penchant for killing monsters, and, oddly enough, their crappy fathers. As far as fathers go, neither Steve nor Jonathan ever had much to brag about. While Lonnie had been absent for the better part of Jonathan’s life—and entirely uninterested in the parts he was there for—Jonathan would almost rather that than have Steve’s kind of crappy father; there, but unavailable, unimpressed, and perpetually disappointed. 

These are the thoughts that sustain Jonathan, that keep him awake and sufficiently alert, until he arrives in Hawkins at just before three o’clock in the afternoon. He pulls his up in front of the Wheeler’s house, parking his Chevy by the curb and grabbing his bag from the backseat, passing Steve’s car on his way up the driveway. He’s about to knock on the front door when it opens, seemingly of its own accord, though Nancy is standing on the other side, her face somewhere between anxious and pleased. She falls into his arms with a warm hug.

“You made it,” she breathes, ushering him inside. Steve’s standing there and also greets him with a hug, offering to help him with his bag, though Jonathan declines and slides it from his shoulder to the floor. 

“Good to see you again, man,” Steve’s grin meets his eyes and they light up, despite the fatigue Jonathan perceives behind them, “How was your drive?”

“Should have flown,” Jonathan laughs, “I could barely focus on the road.” He peers around the front entryway briefly, and then glances towards the basement door half-expectantly. “Where’s Eleven?” He’s eager to see the girl, back from the dead, like his brother once was. To thank her, like he never really had the chance to. To make sure she’s okay. 

“They’re all at Dustin’s place,” Nancy informs him, “You must be starving though.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan’s stomach tightens at the thought of food, “I didn’t really make time to stop on my way over.”

“Let’s head in to town,” Steve suggests, “We can grab a burger and then stock up on supplies. I have a feeling we’re going to need them.” 

\---

“I’m going to help Elle get settled in,” Mike announces as they walk through the front door that evening, setting off from Dustin’s after his parents called to say they were on their way home. Eleven peeks into the living room, where Mike’s father is already asleep in his Lazy Boy. Nancy and Steve are sprawled across the floor, munching on popcorn and watching the television while Mike’s mother sits on the sofa, knitting. Upon their entrance, she sets aside what appears to be a sweater, and makes her way over to them. 

“I’ve moved some pillows and blankets into the basement,” she says, her words directed at Mike. Eleven wonders if Mrs. Wheeler thinks she’s unable to speak; fairly certain that she’s never uttered a word in front of this kind-faced woman, dressed in pink and yellow. 

“Thanks mom,” Mike says, taking Eleven by the hand and turning towards the basement, but for a moment, Eleven resists. She pulls her arm away from Mike and looks up at Mrs. Wheeler, working furiously to hide her nerves. 

“Thank you,” Eleven says quietly, “For letting me stay.” Karen, recovering from a momentary shock at the sound of such a soft voice, kneels down in front of her and reaches out. Eleven is careful not to flinch, careful to keep her face muscles still; she knows Mike’s mother won’t harm her—from what she’s gathered, that’s not what mother’s do. Instead, Eleven closes her eyes as Karen tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She feels a soft hand run down her cheek. 

“I hear you’re a very brave girl,” Karen says, “But if you’re scared tonight, or if you need anything at all, please don’t be afraid to ask.” 

Eleven swallows hard then, slowly, opens her arms, wrapping them around Karen’s neck in a timid hug. Karen pulls her in closer, pushing back the tears that threaten her vision when she sees, from the corner of her eye, Mike smiling, looking happier than she’s seen him in years. 

\---

Once settled in the basement, Eleven pulls the blankets around her legs and, for the first time in as long as she can remember, feels entirely safe. Enveloped in warmth, she feels exhaustion wash over her. It’s been a quiet day, one of reprieve and reconciliation, a course of action decided upon during the car ride back from Delphi that morning, owing mostly to Mike’s insistence that she needed rest. But Eleven worries, in the back of her mind, what tomorrow will bring to Hawkins—what will happen when the monsters realize she’s here.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in my bed?” Mike voice draws her out of her thoughts, “My mom wouldn’t mind as long as I sleep down here,” he pauses, “I want you to be comfortable.”

“This is good,” Eleven insists, settling into the plethora of pillows Karen had provided her with. 

“Do you need anything else?” Mike asks, standing by the stairs. Eleven shakes her head. “Okay then. I’ll let you rest. Just come up to my room if you need me.” He begins to trudge up the stairs. 

“Mike?” she calls after him. He turns back to face her and she sees a glimmer of the boy Mike once was, “Will is not good.” Mike looks at her through narrowed eyes. 

“What are you talking about?” 

She keeps quiet, but beckons him to come closer. He obeys, walking back to her and taking a seat at her feet. 

“Secret,” she says, “Will has a secret.” For a moment, confusion and irritation draw themselves on Mike’s features but his face quickly relaxes. 

“Everyone has secrets, Elle,” he mutters, “You need to be more specific.” Eleven looks slightly put out, wary of his impatience, unsure of why he’s using that tone or of how to navigate the new dynamics of their friendship. Years ago, he told her that she was different than a friend, right before his lips had touched hers. She had reflected on that moment many times while closing interdimensional cracks and destroying faceless monsters, the happiness and warmth it brought to her chest making her stronger, lighter in the darkest of places. She wonders if such a label still applies or if Mike has changed his mind. 

“Will is sick,” she says, trying to be clear with her limited words, thinking back to earlier that day when she encountered Will, to the way she saw herself in the Upside Down when she made contact with his skin; to the way Will had vanished from her sight and she had found herself face-to-no-face-at-all with a monster—if only for the briefest of moments. “Ask him,” she insists and the earnestness in her tone makes Mike nod. 

“Tomorrow,” he says, “You need rest.” It worries him that she looks so tired, that the dark circles around her sunken eyes have yet to go away. He avoids imagining how little sleep she’s gotten in the last four years. Awkwardly, he reaches out and pats the spot just below her knee. He’s unsure how to touch her; how to speak to her. She looks frail, but he knows how much power lurks behind that frailty—or, at least he thinks he does. 

“Mike?” she ventures, stifling a yawn, “Are we still friends?” 

“Yeah,” Mike sighs, taking her hands in his own, startled by how cold her skin is, “Still friends.” 

Despite all the protestations of his head, the better more rational part of his mind that has built up a thick, once indestructible wall around the emotional part; a wall to protect him from getting hurt again, Mike’s heart takes the wheel. He leans forward and pulls her hands gently towards him and grazes her bony knuckles with his lips. Before either of them can say anything, he pulls away and hurries up the stairs. 

\---

“How’s she doing?” Nancy asks when Mike reappears at the top of the stairs. She tactfully, perhaps mercifully, ignores the red flush of his cheeks. 

“I don’t know,” Mike shrugs, “She’s still tired. And she’s so cold—her hands are like ice. I’m worried about her.” He grabs a handful of popcorn and sets himself down in front of the television, on which _Labyrinth_ is playing. 

“She was in a bad place for a long time,” Nancy sighs, “But honestly Mike, I think she’s going to be okay.” 

“She’s a fighter,” Steve chimes in, “Haven’t known her long, but it’s as painfully obvious as that crush you’re nursing.” This earns him an elbow in the ribs from Nancy. 

“We’ve got to think about a plan though,” Nancy continues, “We need to ask her exactly what she knows.”

“Tomorrow Nance,” Steve wraps his arms around Nancy’s waist, “For now, let’s just enjoy the moment.” 

\---

Downstairs, Eleven closes her eyes and her thoughts drift from Will’s secret to her own; she thinks about the power that now flows through her veins, the power that doesn’t just lurk invisibly within the confines of her mind. One of her hands comes loose from the blankets and she holds it in front of her face in the dim light of the lamp Mike left on at her request. She stares, focuses intently on that hand, and slowly, a gaseous substance seeps from her palm, surrounding her skin in what looks like thick grey smoke speckled with white ash. 

This is the part of the Upside Down she has brought with her. This, and the monsters. Though, as Eleven gently shakes her hand and the cloud dissipates, she’s unsure if there’s any real difference between herself and those she fought. 

\---

Mike rises early, just as the first rays of pink sun peek in through his open curtains and the robins, who have built a nest in the tree outside his window, begin chirping. Slipping an old Batman t-shirt on over his blue sweatpants, Mike hurries downstairs to wake Eleven, but finds her already up, sitting cross-legged, a blanket draped over her shoulders as she flips through old issues of Detective Comics. He grins at the coincidence and when she looks up at him, acknowledging his presence with a small wave, he points to the Caped Crusader emblazoned across his chest, earning a matching grin from Eleven. 

“Did you sleep alright?” he asks from his spot at the bottom of the stairs. Mike is heartened to note that she looks healthier, more alive, than she did yesterday. There’s colour in her cheeks again and her face looks less skeletal, if only slightly. 

“Yes,” Eleven replies, setting aside the comic book with a delicate motion. Her eyes remain on his face, as if waiting for instructions, and Mike feels his cheeks grow warm under her gaze. Her eyes, despite the weariness that lingers in them, have retained the warm quality that he remembers from a time that seems like an eternity ago. They still carry an innocence mingled with avid curiosity and deep caring that Mike hasn’t ever seen matched—and doubts he ever will. 

“Breakfast?” Mike asks, clearing his throat. Here, at home again, it’s easier to feel as though Eleven’s disappearance had not left a cavernous hole in his life; it’s easier to imagine that she had never been gone at all. Eleven, hungry again, nods at his suggestion. The taste of warm food is a luxury she wishes to indulge in at every opportunity. 

“Eggos?” Mike follows up his previous question with another and Eleven feels a slight fluttering in her stomach, different than hunger. She shakes her head, hoping Mike is not disappointed in her refusal. 

“No,” she says softly. Mike looks confused, so she hurries to explain, trying to prevent her tongue from tripping over her words. “Hopper left them for me a lot. They…they…taste like the Upside Down.” 

“Right, sorry” Mike nods understandingly and looks apologetic, “Bacon and eggs?” 

“Bacon?” she echoes, unsure what this is and if she’s ever tried it before; if it was included in any of the containers of food Hopper had left for her over the years. Mike’s face lights up and, again, Eleven is reminded of the boy she met years ago, who had relished showing her new things—his television set, his toy dinosaur, his science fair trophies. 

In the kitchen, she sits waiting at the large oak table, sunlight streaming in through the windows and kissing her skin with warmth, watching quietly as Mike leans away from the stove, listening as crackling noises fill the air around him, sounding from the frying pan he’s focused on. Eleven grows concerned. 

“Mike?” Whatever he’s doing, it sounds dangerous; so different than the quiet way Mrs. Wheeler’s meatloaf had baked in the oven yesterday. 

“Just a sec,” Mike says, without looking at her, though, from her angle, she can see his face drawn in concentration. “Shit!” He draws his hand back in pain as a splotch of bacon grease pops out of the pan and lands on his skin. Eleven gasps and is by his side in a second. 

“Are you hurt?” she asks, looking intently at the angry red mark forming near Mike’s wrist. Mike laughs. 

“No, don’t worry,” he grins, switching off the stove and transferring what she assumes is bacon to a plate lined with paper towels, “It’ll go away in a few minutes.” 

“Okay,” Eleven nods and takes a step back, forcing a smile to her lips, “That’s good.”

Once the food has been prepared, Mike plates it and sets one dish in front of Eleven, who thanks him, and one dish across from her, for himself. They sit in silence eating bacon, which Eleven declares ‘amazing’, and admittedly undercooked scrambled eggs. Mike prods his with a fork, disappointed in his efforts, until he observes Eleven gobbling hers up, mixing them with the ketchup he had put on her plate in the shape of a smiling face. 

Despite their silence, Mike reflects on how her speaking has improved, if only slightly—she’s been using some full sentences, some words that he can’t quite figure out where she would have learned them from. And though Mike doesn’t know it, Eleven had learned a lot of new words from visiting him In-Between and listening to him speak, usually to her, whether into a walkie-talkie or into his pillow. She had always longed to reply. 

\--- 

Mike leaves a note, scrawled in barely legible handwriting, for Steve and Nancy, still upstairs asleep. _Gone to Will’s. Be back soon._

“We’re too old to ride doubled up,” he informs Eleven as he leads her outside and pulls his bike out of the garage. It’s a different bike than the one Eleven remembers, coloured blue and quite a bit larger—which makes sense given how tall Mike has grown. “But,” he continues, “You can use Nancy’s old bike.” He points to a pink butterfly-decorated bike leaning against the far wall of the garage, with more than a couple cobwebs dusted over it.

“I can’t,” Eleven sighs, staring at her shoes—sneakers borrowed from Nancy, just like the long green skirt and white blouse she wears, “I don’t know how.”

“Right,” Mike flushes with guilt, “Sorry. I guess we can walk, but it’ll take a bit longer.” 

“Sorry,” Eleven blinks back tears, ashamed of her lack of knowledge. Instinctually, her hand goes up to her eyes, brushing away the wetness that’s gathered on her lashes.

“Hey, don’t cry,” Mike takes a step towards her, his hand landing awkwardly on her shoulder, “It’s okay. Walking is nice. I can show you all the things that have changed while you were gone.” 

Truthfully, not much had changed in Hawkins over the course of four years. There were a couple new places to eat that had sprung up, but those weren’t on the route to Will’s. Instead, Mike improvises with conversation—he tells her about graduating from middle school, about his high school teachers, about the time he broke Troy’s nose. Eleven listens avidly, eager to catch up on everything she’s missed, on all the things she couldn’t witness, despite her visits to Mike. 

“You know,” Mike says as they near the Byers’s house, “My birthday’s at the end of this month.” He’s not sure why, but he feels particularly optimistic this morning. “I wasn’t going to celebrate much, but once we solve this monster problem, maybe we can get ice cream or something together.” 

“I’d like that,” Eleven smiles, even though she’s not sure what ice cream is. 

\---

Eleven is surprised to see Hopper’s face appear behind the door at Will’s house. For Mike, who had almost unwillingly attended their wedding last summer, this is expected. Before his visits to the Byers’s had stopped altogether a few months ago, it had been routine. 

“Hey Chief,” Mike reaches out his hand to shake, “Is Will awake yet?” 

Hopper doesn’t notice Mike; or if he does, he ignores him and the offered handshake. His eyes are only for Eleven. She’s frail, almost waifish, and knobby knees poke out from underneath her borrowed green skirt. Her face is nearly skeletal, her eyes gaunt and sunken, framed by dark circles. Only her hair looks fresh and bouncy, soft waves hitting jagged shoulders. 

“I heard you were home,” he says, holding out his arms. Eleven gazes at him for a moment before falling into those arms, where she is wrapped in a strong, protective bear hug. He catches the lingering scent of breakfast food on her clothes and knows she’s taken care of, which assuages his guilt ever so slightly. 

“Thank you for the food,” Eleven says quietly. 

Mike watches, emotions conflicting in his chest. Part of him wants to yell at Hopper, who stood stoically by while Mike laid flowers by the makeshift wooden cross they placed under the elm tree in the cemetery in November 1984; Hopper, who kept his eyes downcast while Mike spoke in Eleven’s honour; ignoring the crumpled up piece of paper in his gloved hands and the ‘I loved her’ scrawled along at the bottom of his prepared speech, instead, speaking off the cuff. 

_“Eleven was my friend. She was strong and brave and she saved my life. She saved all our lives by giving her own. Elle never got to be a normal kid—well, maybe she did, just for a little bit, with us. I…” Mike’s voice cracks in the cool air and he rubs a sniffle away from his nose, “I’ll never forget Elle. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again, but I hope so.” He can’t say much more; he doesn’t want to. He wants his feelings to remain his own, inside his heart where he can protect them._

_Later, Hopper comes up behind him and squeezes his shoulder._

_“You’ll get better with age, kid.” Mike doesn’t believe him. And he doesn’t get better._

\--- 

As they walk along the long unused tracks in Mirkwood, Eleven’s throat feels narrow. The tension between Will, who had been hesitant to come out with them, and Mike is visible in Mike’s squared shoulders and Will’s faraway gazing. She knows why—she had been there that night, watching from the In-Between, when Mike’s emotions finally, for the first time, boiled over. 

_It’s November 1985, just after Thanksgiving. Twenty-four months since Eleven._

_“You alright Mike?” Dustin asks, tossing a half-full Pringles tin into his backpack, “That campaign was kind of…” His voice trails off as he searches, delicately, for the right word._

_“Subpar,” Lucas offers, making Dustin cringe._

_“Well next time you can write it,” Mike shoots back, his eyes narrowed._

_“Chill dude,” Lucas raises his hands defensively, “We’re just saying…we’re worried about you.”_

_“You don’t have to be,” Mike rolls his eyes, perhaps too dramatically to be convincing, “I’m fine.”_

_“That’s bullshit, Mike,” Dustin mutters, “It’s okay to be not okay.”_

_“I said I’m fine.”_

_Dustin looks around Mike’s basement; at the perfectly preserved blanket fort and the walkie-talkie that rests there, a shrine for a girl they once knew. He opens his mouth to say something, but Will, usually quiet on the subject of Eleven, chimes in._

_“Mike,” Will’s voice is soft, careful, “That place is evil. If Eleven went there…”_

_“Shut up Will,” Mike hisses, tensing his shoulders._

_“Hey!” Lucas butts in, “He’s trying to be real with you. Don’t be so dense Mike. If Eleven went to the Upside Down, she’s probably dead by now. We tried looking for her, but you have to let her go.” Lucas’s heart sinks in his chest as he says these words—he hates this conversation—it’s not the first time they’ve had it, but he always hopes it’ll be the last._

_“She saved us and you want to forget about her?” Mike’s voice is raising. Why are they doing this now? Why, almost one year to the day since he put that insignificant branch in the ground, two years since she left them._

_“We’re not forgetting,” Dustin pipes up, “Will was just…”_

_“Will was just what?” Mike shouts, “Will’s half the reason Eleven is gone!”_

_He regrets the words instantly, but they’re out there in the world, escaped from a dark place at the back of his mind. A silence falls amongst the boys. This attitude, in retrospect was probably not all that surprising from a boy who had held an hour long funeral for his goldfish in the second grade._

_“Screw you Mike,” Lucas mutters, “Will’s our friend. So was Eleven, but she didn’t die to save Will. She died to save us.”_

_One by one, his friends clamber up the stairs. Will’s the last to leave. Mike, with his back to them, doesn’t notice Will look back, desperate to apologize before Dustin yanks him up the stairs._

_That night, Mike methodically takes down the blankets of her fort, while Eleven watches from her other world, tears rolling freely down her cheeks. He folds them one by one and returns them to the linen closet upstairs. He doesn’t cry, his face an icy mask. At some point, Karen will peek downstairs and see him working. She contemplates joining him, but knows this is something he has to do on his own._

_When he’s finished, he whispers into the blank space, the empty void in the basement, “I’m sorry, Elle. I tried.”_

_And he’ll never hear her reply, “It’s okay, Mike. I know.”_

_The boys will go on to pretend this night never happened. They avoid Mike’s house for a few weeks, instead choosing to watch movies and play Scrabble at Dustin’s for two weekends in a row. Mike doesn’t join them. When they’re invited back for a campaign just before Christmas, one of their last, no one comments on the missing blankets._

Very suddenly, Mike stops, rounding on Will and breaking the silence of the summer morning. “Elle says that you’re sick,” Mike’s tone is accusatory, “What’s she talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Will says, a cool slick sweat forming on the back of his neck as it usually does when he lies. He’s very glad that it’s an invisible tell. 

“Come on Will,” Mike presses, crossing his arms, “This is serious. A goddamn Thessalhydra nearly killed me.” Will gulps, knowing Mike is right, knowing that lying is futile and, at this point, probably very dangerous. He had never intended for it to go so far.

“Since I came back,” Will sighs, “There’s been something wrong.”

“Wrong?” Mike echoes, “Wrong how?”

Head in hands, defeated, Will divulges everything he’s kept locked away for four long years; all the horrors he’s been hiding. By the time he’s done, Mike’s eyes are wide with shock, his mouth a grim slash. It’s an expression that twists Will’s stomach more than the slugs he vomits up, that sends a shooting pain across his chest. He’s never found it easy to lie to Mike. Eleven, however, doesn’t looked surprised; she’s barely fazed. She simply stands there, watching passively but with guardedness Will doesn’t quite understand. 

“So you’ve been barfing these slugs into sinks and toilets?” Mike voice is raised in anger, “Into the _water supply_? How stupid are you?” Will looks taken aback, hurt. 

“I was scared,” he whispers, “I didn’t know what to do. It only happened once every couple months and I thought maybe it would go away and…”

“Jesus Christ, Will!” Mike’s hands ball into fists, “You could have been really sick! You could have made other people sick!”

“I know!” Will’s voice rises as well, cracking with distress, “I’m sorry! But Mike…” he pauses, open mouthed and helpless, “You already hated me!” Mike is shocked by this response and misses a beat

“I did not,” Mike defends himself, half-heartedly. 

“Don’t,” Will sighs, “You blamed me for Eleven disappearing. I understand, I really do. But you need to understand that I wanted everything to go back to normal. I just wanted us to be friends again, without the weirdness.” Mike, guilt tugging at his heartstrings, opts to ignore this comment, knowing that Will’s at least half-right; he hadn’t been a good friend. Instead, he turns his attention to Eleven, digging a toe of her sneaker into the dirt.

“Elle,” Mike rounds on her, “Could these…slugs be the reason why there are gates opening up everywhere? The reason more people are disappearing?” With that, he shoots a brief withering glance at Will, who shrinks back. 

“Maybe,” Eleven replies with a shrug, “Probably.” 

“What are we going to do?” Will looks pale, terrified. 

“ _You’re_ going to tell Nancy and Steve and Jonathan,” Mike says, matter-of-factly, “And maybe they can figure out a way to fix this.” 

“Hopper too,” Eleven adds, “He’s been there. He knows.” She toys with the hem of her blouse. “Don’t worry, Will,” Eleven offers him a smile, “Friends help friends.” She extends a hand towards him. 

As Will reaches out and takes her offered hand, there’s no shock—not this time. But something bigger, stronger, sends the two flying apart, landing in separate heaps ten feet from each other. Mike makes a move towards Eleven, but she’s already getting up. Will remains crumpled in a heap so Mike runs over to him, just in time to witness him prop himself up on all fours. 

“Mike,” Will groans, suddenly heaving. Mike watches in horror as a slimy creature, at least five inches long falls from Will’s mouth onto the dry ground in front of him. It begins crawling away, it’s smooth, belly leaving what looks like a trail of sludge behind it. 

“What the…” Mike makes a move to step on the grotesque thing.

“No!” Eleven shouts, coming up behind him and grabbing his shoulder. Mike stops in mid-step, “Not safe.” 

She pushes herself past him, to the creature and kneels down towards it. For a moment, as she outstretches her hand, it looks as though she’s going to pick it up. 

“Elle, what are y…” Mike’s voice dies in his throat as he watches a dark cloud form around Eleven’s hand, as he watches said cloud float around the rancid black slug, encasing it. And suddenly it’s gone and Eleven is upright and by his side once more. He gapes at her for a long moment, before his senses return. Mike looks back towards Will, intending to ask if he’s okay, a sudden surge of protectiveness rising in his chest.

But Will is no longer laying on ground where he was moments ago. In fact, there’s no trace of him at all.

“Elle,” Mike breathes, “Where’s Will?” 

\--- 

Joyce lights a cigarette and brings it up to her lips, taking a deep drag before she fixes Jim, seated across the kitchen table, with a disappointed stare. 

“You’re telling me you knew she was alive this whole time, Jim? You saw the way it was killing the boys to think she was dead and you didn’t say anything?” 

“What should I have said Joyce? I kept the girl alive.” 

“In that place! That place where Will was!” Joyce’s voice is edging on hysterical. Jim hasn’t heard that tone since the night they brought Will back from the dead. He sighs and reaches for Joyce’s hand, feeling it tremble slightly in his own. He gently caresses the wedding band he had placed on her finger a year ago. 

“Far as I know, she was only there sometimes,” he assures her, “And she’s been keeping us safe too. Worries me that she’s back. Those kids aren’t telling us everything.” 

“When have they ever?” A silence falls between them, comfortable and full of familiarity. Jim drains the rest of his coffee. 

“But,” Joyce continues, drawing her hand back and stepping from the table, clearing away the breakfast plates, “I don’t think you're telling me everything either. What do you mean she’s been protecting us?”

“Joyce,” Jim grimaces, a hand running through his rugged beard—he’ll need to shave soon.

“No Jim, I’m serious,” she shoots him a serious look, “I was willing to let it all go; to pretend I’d forgotten about all the crap that happened in ’83, but that little girl is back and I want to know what’s going on. Is Will in danger?”

“The less you know the better,” Jim replies, “But let’s just put it this way. Those assholes from the government know the girl’s alive, they have this whole time. It’s what they asked me to do; keep the girl alive. Bring her the things she needs to survive—food, clothing, a goddamn toothbrush and bottled water. Whatever she found four years ago is what they’re after.”

“It’s so dangerous,” Joyce whispers, “Jesus.” Joyce reaches for another cigarette with quaking hands. She looks like she’s thinking, struggling to put the pieces together and Hopper hopes to God she won’t ask another question. Sometimes that woman is too smart for her own good. 

“If she’s been there, with those toxins and those monsters and…how is she alive?”

“Looks like we can just ask her,” Jim mutters, nodding out the window. Joyce follows his gaze and sees two teenagers, a boy and a girl, running back towards her house. Joyce’s heart leaps into her throat and she stands.

She’s out the door, running towards the teens before the words ‘Where’s Will?’ can leave her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's reading, kudos-ing (new verb?) and commenting. Please keep your thoughts and feedback coming. I always love hearing what your favourite part of the chapter was, so let me know in the comments! 
> 
> Cheers,  
> Val <3


	4. While I was gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Eleven was gone, she fought. Harder than anyone could ever imagine.

Joyful giggling fills the crisp morning air that wafts in through the open kitchen window as Kelly Macpherson folds walnuts into her banana bread, red plastic bowl cradled in her arm over the marble countertop. Briefly, her eyes flit outside, to where her daughters are running over the dewy grass playing some variation of tag, by the sounds of it. Jessica, eight, is gleefully whooping as she runs away from her five year old sister, Grace, who clumsily leaps after her, reaching for Jessica’s long blonde hair, flying out behind her in the breeze, catching the sunlight. Kelly notes, with a sigh, that there are already grass stains spotted all over Grace’s freshly ironed yellow dress—not that she’s surprised. 

Turning away from the window, Kelly spoons the gummy batter into a pan and turns on her heel, sliding it into the pre-heated oven with ease. Wiping her hands on the checked dishtowel by the sink, Kelly vaguely becomes aware of an eerie silence; a lapse in the giggles and shouts from her daughters. 

“Jessie, where’d you go?” Grace’s nasally voice, laced with minor confusion and worry, floats into the kitchen, mingling with the sweet scent of sugar and vanilla. Kelly’s face draws into a taut frown. She hurries back to the window and peers outside, concerned because she didn’t think the girls were playing hide and seek—and because there aren’t many places to hide in their open backyard.

When her eyes fall upon an empty expanse of green grass and tulip-lined flowerbeds, Kelly’s heart leaps into her throat. 

“Jess,” she calls out, running from the kitchen to the back sliding door, her chest tightening with anxiety, “Grace?” No response; just the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves of the stately oaks in Mrs. Gillespie’s backyard. 

“Jessica!” Louder this time. Firmer. “Grace!” Silence. Kelly’s hands start to tremble, her stomach starts to writhe, sending acid into her throat. Her hands go up and tangle into the once-neat bun tied atop her head, pulling at roots of her hair in agony. 

“Rob! Rob!” Kelly yells for her husband, inside watching the highlights of last night’s baseball game. Through her thick tears, she can barely see him as he hurries out into the yard, panic written on his face. “The girls,” she sobs, incoherent and broken, “They’re gone!”

\--- 

Jim Hopper determinedly ignores the small black pager clipped to his leather belt the first three times it vibrates against his waist, also grating on his already tenuous nerves. He has bigger problems to deal with than whatever’s happening at the precinct—speeding tickets or small misdemeanours or whatever else qualifies as police business in this sleepy town. Lighting a cigarette to calm himself, Jim makes a mental list of all those problems. 

Problem One: Will Byers, his stepson, a kid without a malicious bone in his body, has once again vanished into thin air, probably gone back to that hellish alternate dimension—The Upside Down, or whatever name the kids had given it four years ago. How and why, Hopper doesn’t know, which only adds to the complexity of this particular problem. 

Problem Two: Joyce Byers, his wife of just over a year, is a different kind of distraught than what he had expected and he’s not sure how to deal with it. She’s either beyond sobbing or knows that tears are an exercise in futility, because she is single-mindedly dragging boxes of Christmas lights out of storage, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips. He’s sure that if he doesn’t get a handle on that situation, the house will be lit up like a department store in a little under five minutes. 

Problem Three: The small, frail, telekinetic teenager sitting on his sofa, shaking in spite of the red woollen blanket wrapped around her shoulders while the Wheeler boy kneels next to her, clasping her hands and whispering attempts to calm her down. Hopper’s grown to care for that girl, despite not having laid eyes on her for almost half a decade. The fatherly instinct in his gut is telling him to go over to her and offer some sort of comfort in exchange for a clearer explanation, but the Wheeler kid, who also very clearly cares for her, seems to have it under control—for now. 

Problem Four: An extremely upset Jonathan Byers, his other stepson—who’s yet to call him Dad, unlike Will, a thought that makes his heart clench—pacing the living room nervously, hands in his dishevelled hair, muttering rapidly into the telephone receiver to _someone_ — Jim’s not sure who, but he assumes it’s Wheeler’s sister. He’s catching a word here and there— _monster, guns, gasoline_ —and worries that whatever’s happening on that phone call will turn into another problem. 

Problem Five: Well, problem five is that the goddamn pager won’t stop. 

It’s the fourth page that sends Jim over the edge, causing him to rip the stupid thing from his belt and contemplate, for a fraction of a moment, flushing it down the toilet. Instead, he swallows his ire and plants his feet firmly on the ground in the living room, blocking Jonathan’s pacing path and holding out his hand, the one not holding a cigarette, silently asking for the phone. Jonathan mutters a _goodbye_ and a _see you soon_ to whomever he’s been talking to and relinquishes his control of the device. Jim mouths a thank you as he’s dialling the precinct, turning away towards the kitchen as Jonathan goes over to Eleven and Mike, seating himself on the chair opposite their spot on the couch. 

“Chief,” Florence’s voice fills his ear after only a ring and a half—she’s obviously been expecting his call. Hopper’s attention is drawn into the phone call, away from Jonathan and the kids, who are speaking in hushed tones he wishes he were privy to. Butting out his cigarette into the ashtray by the fridge, Hopper can tell, from the way Flo’s voice is three octaves higher than usual, that she’s overwhelmed. “You need to get in here now,” she continues, not waiting for a greeting, “Kelly Macpherson’s two little girls vanished from her backyard this morning and I’ve just gotten a call from Rachel Klein saying that her son didn’t come home from work last night. It’s madness!” 

Vanished children, folks disappearing—it’s all familiar, yet so far away, still so out of the ordinary that it’s almost unbelievable. _If only it were as easy as not believing_ , Hopper thinks, his fingers coming up to massage the bridge of his nose; a headache very quickly setting in. 

“Listen Flo,” Hopper speaks gruffly into the receiver, his words more churlish than he intends them to be, “I’ve got a personal problem here—mighty serious. Tell Callaghan to take the lead on this for now, and I’ll be in when I can.”

“But chi…” Florence begins to protest, but Hopper immediately interrupts. 

“Flo,” his voice is firm, “Callaghan can handle this.” Hopper hangs up before she can respond, knowing full well that Callaghan cannot handle this—he searches for the right word—this _shitshow_ ; knowing that any investigation his deputies launch will be in vain because he already knows where Kelly Macpherson’s little girls are, where Rachel Klein’s twenty-something year old son is. The goddamn Upside Down. Hopper rubs his eyes with his thumbs, feeling their callouses against the soft skin of his lids, hoping to Christ he can save those people in time—all of them, but especially Will. Will is his priority. He tosses the phone onto the table with little grace and goes over to Joyce, wrapping an arm firmly around her waist as she clambers to pin a string of lights over the stove.

“Joyce,” Hopper says, as softly as he can manage, “Come here.” It takes little effort to pull her away from the lights and into his arms, which wrap around her shoulders with care, one hand resting on the back of her neck. He can feel her entire body trembling with nervous energy. 

“This can’t be happening, Jim,” she groans, “Not again.” 

“We’re going to figure this out,” Hopper assures her, though he’s not as confident as he sounds, “Let’s wait on the lights for a minute, okay…” Joyce shakes her head and tries to pull away, but he holds her tight, “Just for a minute,” he insists, “Let’s see if we can get a clearer explanation out of the kids.” 

Leading her by the hand, Hopper returns to the living room where Eleven sits with Mike and Jonathan. He catches their shared whispers before they realize he’s within earshot. 

“What was that thing?” Mike asks, folding another tissue from the Kleenex box resting in the nook of his arm and handing it to Eleven, who wipes away mucus from beneath her nose, a side-effect of her tears, “And what did you do to it?”

“Monster,” Eleven looks Mike, her expression pained, “I sent it back.” 

“But how?” Mike continues his line of questions, his hand hovering over hers, as if he’s afraid to touch her. It’s peculiar, Jim notes, given that they had been holding hands when he answered the front door that morning. Jonathan looks on intently, clearly eager to grasp any hint Eleven may provide about his brother’s whereabouts. Eleven, looking particularly pale and agitated, is saved an answer by Nancy and Steve striding purposefully through the front door, canvas bags slung over their shoulders, red plastic jugs in hand. Before Hopper can react, they have dropped their baggage to the floor—he’s almost afraid to ask what’s in those damn bags—and have wrapped their arms around Jonathan, whispering sentiments of comfort. 

“Listen kid,” Hopper kneels down so he’s face to face with Eleven, resting next to where Mike is seated by her feet, “You need to tell me again what’s going on.” She and Mike had tried to explain it, breathless and trembling, when they ran back to the Byers’s house, but Hopper could barely follow—Mike spoke too quickly and Eleven barely spoke at all. There had been something about slugs and gates and Will disappearing—he had really only followed that last part. 

“We told you,” Mike’s voice is slightly exasperated, verging on hysterical and Hopper resists the urge to tell him to mind his tone, “Will and Eleven touched hands and there was this…pop or something…and Will vomited up this slug and then Elle…”

“A slug?” Hopper interjects, wanting clarification. Mike nods, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Yeah, this gross black thing,” he shrugs, unsure how else to explain what he had seen in the forest. Mike opens his mouth to speak again, to continue his recounting of that morning, but this time it’s Joyce who intervenes. 

“He’s sick?” Joyce’s voice cracks. Mike nods again, with more sympathy, avoiding Joyce’s gaze. Somewhere underneath the concern he feels for Eleven is a deep and unsettling feeling for Will’s wellbeing. 

“I guess so,” Mike mumbles, “Eleven said he was.” 

“Well how do we get him back?” Hopper swoops in with a question, directed at Eleven, before the subject of Will’s illness can be dwelt on. He wants to focus on the positives, on the task at hand—bringing his boy— _his_ boy—home. _Don’t get caught up in the bad stuff,_ Hopper tells himself, hoping that his stubborn ass will listen. 

“He’s going to come home,” Eleven says, glancing up at Joyce. With a small sigh, indicative of her exhaustion, she pulls herself off the couch, letting the blanket fall behind her as she brushes past Hopper and away from Mike. Eleven reaches out and places a hand carefully on Joyce’s arm. “I promise.” Mike and Hopper watch in silence as Joyce, sniffling back tears, runs a hand over Eleven’s cheek. Eleven flushes and pulls away, staring purposefully at the ground. Mike notices the quaking in her bottom lip, the tremble that runs up her spine. 

“Are you okay, Elle?” he asks, standing and by her side in a single, fluid movement, his shoulders squared as if he needs to protect her, defend her from the bad feelings welling up inside her chest. Eleven turns to face him, her back to Joyce, and almost imperceptibly shakes her head. Hopper can see tears welling in her deep brown eyes, bloodshot and sleepy. 

“It wants me,” she whispers, taking an unsure step towards Mike, drawn towards the warm and solicitous aura that envelops him. 

At these words, everyone in the room stops what they’re doing as six sets of eyes fall upon Eleven. Mike feels deflated, like someone has stepped on his chest and drained the air out.

“What do you mean?” Mike asks quietly, once his lungs seem to work again; once a painfully long silence has hung in the air, “What wants you?” Eleven looks up into Mike’s dark eyes, her face begging him to understand, begging him to hold her close.

“The Shadow.” 

\--- 

_Eleven has been running for hours, for days on end—or so it feels. The sneakers on her feet are no longer white, but have become greyed with age; their fabric torn, their soles broken and laces tattered. She feels a lot like those shoes, broken and tattered. She hopes, at some point, Hopper will think to leave her a new pair. She hasn’t quite figured out how to communicate with him yet—how to request things: shoes, a warmer sweater, a picture of Mike to keep with her when she can’t visit him. These are the things she wants._

_Her legs feel as though they’re about to quit, collapse underneath her, the muscles burning in pain. Eleven’s chest is tight, her throat constricted, her breathing heavy and laboured. Sweat pours down her back despite the chill in the atmosphere all around her. But she can't stop. So she keeps running, dust and dead earth flying up under her heavy footfalls, making her sputter._

_And then she’s falling, tripped over her own laces or something on the ground—it doesn’t really matter. A loud sob, animalistic, broken in her throat, escapes her chapped, bleeding lips as her knees hit the ground, scraping open._

_‘Girl,’ a voice, deep and dark, yet soothing and ethereal, sounds in her head, ‘Why do you run?’ Eleven works to push the voice out, to protect her mind from the insidious thoughts threatening to enter. She begins an attempt to crawl across the ground, away from the shadowy creature looming over her, but collapses with exhaustion._

_A crooked, gnarled hand, hooked fingers with razor-like claws reach out for her. She wants, so desperately, to stand and fight, knowing that she’s the only reason those crooked hands and hooked fingers haven’t wrapped themselves around the world she had once glimpsed so briefly as a kind and loving place. If she fails, then that world will suffer—Mike will not be safe._

_But she’s so tired, drained of every shred of energy. She’s been fighting so hard. Her entire body aches and her arms are shaking beneath her. She can taste blood, warm and metallic on her tongue, slipping down the back of her throat. She feels it running over her lips, down her cheeks, matting in her hair as it pools around the her head, laid against the cold ashy ground._

_‘I can help you.’ That enchanting voice, ominously welcoming, rings in her mind once more. Eleven weakly shakes her head._

_She will not give up. Not without one last try._

_Eleven’s nails dig into the dirt; she feels grime push up underneath her fingernails, but more than that, she feels something foreign, something cold and damp run through her veins. Energy, albeit very little, surges through her._

_The monster is so close she can feel its hot breath on her face—though it has no mouth, she can smell the smoky blackness of its immaterial being, she can see the images of destruction it forces into her mind, hear the screams of people she cares about. She sees Mike, bloody and broken, Mike locked up in the lab, in the dark room._

_“No,” Eleven rasps out. Her hand comes out of the dirt and extends towards the monster, a gesture meant to protect herself, palm open and outwards._

_And something dark, something dangerous, leaves her palm along with a wave of telekinetic energy, sending the Shadow hurtling backwards. Eleven stands and runs, swallowing her pain._

\---

Karen, hands covered in yellow rubber gloves, is washing dishes in the kitchen, making a mental note to berate Mike for not draining the bacon grease from the pan, instead letting it congeal, before hurrying off to Joyce’s house with Elle in tow—or so she assumes. Yet, perhaps this abandonment of chores is a good thing, the sign of a normal teenage boy inhabiting her house. Karen is certainly torn, somewhere between happy that her son is up and about and with his friends again and worried, knowing full well Steve had not given her the full story yesterday. Was she supposed to believe that Eleven—Elle—had just shown up on the stoop of their apartment in Indianapolis after four years? 

Well, stranger things had happened. 

Eleven—Elle—did have magical powers, or whatever it was that she had. 

Karen sighs and tries not to think about the half-truths Steve Harrington had delivered in an attempt to assuage her worrying about her children. Instead, she thinks about Elle, this girl who’s suddenly come back in to her son’s life, hopefully for the better. Karen imagines she’ll have to take the girl shopping once she and Mike get home that afternoon, buy her some of her own clothes, those that fit properly. Where is she going to live? Part of her imagines Ted would be oblivious to another child in the house, but with the way Mike looks at her, the way he’s spoken about her, the letters she found in the top drawer of his dresser—it’s probably not the healthiest thing. 

The shrill sound of the doorbell ringing draws Karen back to the present. Holly, from her place in front of the television set where she’s been watching cartoons, jumps up, her blonde pigtails bouncing. 

“I’ll get it, Mommy!” Holly announces happily. Karen’s stomach lurches as she hurries out of the kitchen. When Nancy and Mike were small, almost seven years old, as Holly is now, she wouldn’t have thought twice about letting them open the door, but so much has changed. 

“No Holly,” Karen keeps her voice calm as she walks down the front hallway, “It’s okay. Mommy will answer the door.” She wipes her hands on her apron and pushes some stray hairs out of her face before opening the door. 

Standing incredible close to her, already leaning in, is a tall male with dark hair and a crooked nose. His eyes are hidden beneath dark sunglasses and he wears an expensive-looking suit. Karen can smell a strong cologne lingering in the fabric as his thin lips, framed by a short, trimmed bear, twist into a smile.

“Karen Wheeler?” he asks, holding out his hand. Karen knits her eyebrows together, suddenly defensive. The last time a man like this had shown up on her doorstep, her son had spiralled out into four years of depression and anger. They had torn apart her basement and torn apart everything she thought she knew about the small bit of the world she inhabited. 

“Can I help you?” Karen’s voice is cold, venomous. 

“Yes, actually,” the man replies, calm and suave. He slips his sunglasses off and into the pocket of his suit jacket with one swift motion. “My name is Jacob Carter, I’m with the Department of Energy.” He pulls a badge of sorts out of his pocket and holds it up to Karen, who barely has a chance to glimpse it in the glint of the sunlight before it’s tucked back into his pocket. “May I come in?” He takes a step forward, foot barely an inch from the threshold of the door. Karen’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“I really don’t think that’s the best idea,” she says, as sweetly as she can muster, a voice that does not match her tried expression. With a conscious effort, she keeps her hands from balling into defensive fists, “I’m very busy.”

“This will only take a moment,” Jacob insists, “Is your son home?” He cranes his neck to look inside. Karen feels her stomach tighten. 

“You should leave,” she smiles falsely, her arms opening to span the length of the doorframe, determined to block this man from entering her home. He seems to get the hint and takes a step backward, fixing her with a serious stare from icy blue eyes.

“I know the girl’s been here, Mrs. Wheeler,” he says, matter-of-factly, “I want you to know that she’s dangerous. We’ve been keeping an eye on her and she brought something back from the other world. Your son, your whole family could be in danger with her here.”

For a moment, Karen almost breaks. The thought of Mike in danger again, the thought of what Elle could have possibly brought back with her, makes her fingers twitch. But Karen finds her resolve, steels herself against that fear. 

“Leave my house,” she says in a low voice, her smile vanishing, “Now.” 

She watches grimly as Jacob walks back down the driveway, follows him with her eyes as he gets into a waiting black car at the end of the driveway that quickly speeds away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who continues to read, leave kudos, and comment. Your support inspires me to keep writing! I apologize for the lack of fluff in this chapter—and promise some in the next. Originally, this chapter was something like 7, 000 words, but I scaled it back a bit. This means that the next update shouldn't be too far off (hurray!) 
> 
> Please let me know what you think! What was your favourite part of the chapter? Do you want a happy or an angsty ending? 
> 
> Next chapter: Where's Will gone to? Eleven comes face-to-no-face with her demons. Mileven flangst (trademarking this word for a special blend of fluff & angst)
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for reading! Leave your thoughts & feedback below. Many thanks to Theo, who requested/inspired me to write the flashback for this scene.
> 
> Much love,  
> Val


	5. A name etched in plastic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will Byers decides to be a hero and Eleven discovers what it's like to be loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turning out longer than I expected. Enjoy!

Will’s eyes flit open and for a moment, laying on the hard and unforgiving ground, he feels groggy, head heavy on his shoulders, like there’s a weight resting on his brow. But this feeling lasts only for a moment; a strong shiver runs down his spine, bringing his senses rushing back to him all at once. And suddenly, he’s cold. The fine hairs on his arms stand on edge, the band t-shirt he’s clad in, a hand-me-down from Jonathan and still a little too baggy for his lean frame, not nearly enough to keep him warm in the frigid air. It’s the temperature, and the strange, empty coldness that buries itself deep within his veins—worse than the snowiest winters in Hawkins—that indicate to Will exactly where he’s ended up. 

Shakily, Will clambers to his feet, pushing himself off the cold and ashy forest floor. He looks around, eyes drinking in the dismal surroundings, though it’s an unnecessary confirmation of his situation—the landscape around him is familiar in more ways than one. He recognizes the disused tracks that run through the woods behind his house, though they are cracked, decayed, and mossier than in the real world. The trees here are bare of leaves and instead covered in what looks to be cobwebs. Will has been here before; he spent nearly a week in this world, hiding from and eluding the Demogorgon. He visits this place regularly in his nightmares; sometimes in his waking flashbacks, which he’s long since assumed were more than just a symptom of post-traumatic stress. But, The Upside Down feels different today. It feels worse than he remembers—and it feels a lot worse than it looks. There’s a tension in the air that Will doesn’t recollect, a faint whirring sound disrupting the still darkness, making him wonder if he’s imagining things. 

Will feels different this time too. This time, there’s no fear in him, clutching at his heart with an icy grip; or, at least, fear is not his dominant emotion. That spot is instead reserved for guilt, sitting heftily on his chest, mingled with a desire to make things better, to make them right. And though Will is not entirely sure what _things_ he needs to make right, he knows he’s willing to admit that Mike had not been wrong to call him selfish. For the past four years, he’s been hiding this terrible secret from his friends and family; and if it’s the reason other people are getting hurt now, then Will feels responsible for fixing it—that’s what Mike would do and he’s always looked up to Mike Wheeler.

As Will dusts off his pants and straightens his shirt, he wishes for the rifle hanging in the shed behind his house or even for his dad’s gun—Jim’s gun. With neither of those things available, Will figures his next best option for self-defence is breaking off a branch from one particularly rotted tree. If need be, he can use the sharp edges to fight off a monster. Because Will Byers doesn’t plan on hiding away for another week, letting his friends do all the work of rescuing him. 

He begins the long, cold march home, purposefully ignoring the feeling of eyes boring into the back of his skull as he walks, sneaker-clad feet treading over mud and dead vegetation. Will doesn’t get much further than a mile when he hears quiet sobbing somewhere close by—a sound far too human to belong in this place. With narrowed eyes, already fully adjusted to the darkness, he looks around.

A small girl, close to Holly’s age, is huddled up against a tree, her arms protectively wrapped around an even smaller girl with matching flaxen hair. 

“Hey there.” Will approaches them, noting the crisp brightness of the green grass stains on the younger girl’s dress. They can’t have been here very long, which he imagines is a good thing, though his ears strain for any telling sound of another creature. The older girl stands up, her shoulders tense and her face shaped into a scowl; a valiant effort at bravery given the tear-streaked dirt caked to her cheeks. Will consciously adjusts himself to look as unintimidating as possible—a fairly easy task for him, accomplished as he drops to his knees, coming closer to the little girl’s eye level. 

“I can help you,” he informs her, holding out a hand in what he hopes is a soothing, calming manner. 

“We want to go home,” the girl says in a quivering voice, her eyes welling with fresh tears. Will nods reassuringly. 

“Me too,” he replies, working to keep his voice bright, the way he used to when speaking with Holly, “I’m heading home right now actually. Maybe we can go together?” After a moment’s deliberation, the girl nods, beckoning her sister to stand up. 

“I’m Jessica,” she says quietly, staring Will in the eyes, “This is Grace.” 

“Well, Jessica and Grace,” Will smiles, keeping his eyes locked on hers despite the shadow he catches moving out of the corner of his eye, despite the otherwise ominous stillness of the woods. “My name’s Will.” He stands back upright and offers each girl a hand, which they take without hesitation. Together, they continue their walk, seeking out home. 

And, for the first time in his life, Will Byers feels heroic. He feels a little like how he imagines Mike must have felt four years ago—strong and brave, like a leader. 

\---

“We have to open a gate,” Eleven whispers, uncomfortable with the number of eyes resting on her. She sinks further into the couch pillows, deeper into the warm red blanket Joyce had given her earlier. Mike, from his spot beside her, notes the exhaustion in her voice and the weary look that has found its way back to her eyes. “One gate,” Eleven continues, “Here. They’ll come.” 

“Why? How do you know?” Dustin poses the question, seated by Eleven’s feet and rocking back and forth—whether from nerves or excitement, Mike can’t tell, but he resists the urge to nudge Dustin with his toe to make him sit still. He and Lucas had arrived at the Byers’s front door less than half an hour ago, spurred by a phone call from Mike. Dustin, while rocking, also fidgets with his compass, rubbing his fingers over its face. He had brought it, ‘just in case.’ In response to Dustin’s question, Eleven points a finger into her chest with a steady, purposeful motion. Mike closes his eyes, willing this entire situation to disappear. 

“It’s because she’s here, Dustin,” Mike sighs, the supplemental explanation falling from his dry mouth. He too looks exhausted, overwhelmed. 

“You mean these monsters are hunting you, Elle?” Lucas asks her from his spot over her shoulder, the side opposite of Mike. Eleven nods, glancing up at him. “But why?” Lucas frowns and places a comforting hand on her blanket-covered shoulder, squeezing firmly.

Eleven doesn’t know how to respond, what information to divulge or what words to use. Because she hurt them, killed them and hunted them for so long? Because she’s the only thing _really_ standing in the way of them coming into this world? Because she is the only one capable of _really_ stopping them— _it_ —because of the poison she brought back to this world; the one floating in her bloodstream. 

“But how do we open a gate like that?” Steve asks the question, changing the subject and dissipating tension that had fallen over the room at Eleven’s silence. 

Eleven feels the glare of eyes surge on her once again, causing her skin to crawl. She understands why they’re all looking at her hungrily, after all, she had solved their problem before, and perhaps she could do it again, but this does not offer her any semblance of comfort. 

After a moment, Eleven looks towards Joyce, meeting her eager gaze. She swallows, blinks, and licks her lips. Then, in a small voice, she says “Will.” A chorus of questions, of concerned voices, fly towards her; a barrage on all her startled senses that causes her to shrink away. Mike wraps an arm around her shoulder and Lucas’s hand offers another squeeze of encouragement. 

“Calm down, everyone,” Mike says firmly, “Elle knows what she’s doing, right Elle?” Eleven nods, regaining some of her nerve. She’s thankful to have Mike and her other friends supporting her. 

“When Will comes here,” she explains slowly, her mind casting around, carefully selecting the best words to use, “We can open the gate together.”

“And then we’ll fight,” Nancy says, firmly and calmly. It’s her attempt to bring the conversation to an end, to allow Eleven a break from the conversation. 

“Is it that easy, Nancy?” Jonathan asks harshly, putting his head in his hands, “This is my brother. We need to save him.” 

“We don’t,” Mike chimes in, defensive of his sister and the petite, frail girl who sits tucked into his arm. “Will’s going to be the hero this time. He’s coming back.” 

“Elle,” Joyce finally breaks her silence, taking a step forward, “Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” Eleven breathes her response. Joyce nods and places a hand on Jonathan’s tensed shoulders, silently urging him to soften. Taking the cue, Steve does the same and Jonathan visibly crumples, leaning on his friend for support. 

“Tell us about this monster,” Hopper encourages her, his usually gruff voice softer than Mike has ever heard it before, “What did you call it before?” 

“The Shadow,” Eleven responds, holding up a single, thin finger in front of her, “Just one.” 

“One shadow?” Dustin echoes, “Like a boss?” Eleven, along with Hopper and Joyce, look at him blankly. A slightly crestfallen expression on his face, Dustin reworks his phrasing, “It’s like the most powerful, baddest, scariest monster?” 

“Yes,” Eleven says again with a small nod. “Kill The Shadow,” she continues, “And they all die. It controls them.” 

“But what does it want, kid?” Hopper prods further. Eleven narrows her eyes, fighting the tears that well there. Mike pats her arm gently. Her lips open to offer an answer, but no sound comes out. She cannot bring herself to utter the words on the edge of her tongue—death, destruction. 

“I think that’s enough,” Mike, tactlessly, cuts in. 

“But when do we get to this gate business?” Steve asks, “Shouldn’t we get started?” 

“We have to wait.” Eleven finds her voice, “They’ll come at night.” 

“It’s gonna be a long day,” Steve says with a whistle, putting pressure on Jonathan’s shoulder, “Anyone want to watch _Ghostbusters_?” 

\--- 

Mike, legs crossed underneath him on a kitchen chair, watches quietly as Dustin and Lucas play _Scrabble_. He already knows that, because he’s not playing, Lucas will win. In fact, they probably chose the game because he had declined to play—Mike always wins at Scrabble. While he sits, looking over Dustin’s shoulder and forming words out of the lettered tiles his friend has, Mike hears someone knock on the Byers’s front door. All three boys immediately lose interest in the game, listening intently as Hopper goes over to the front door. From his spot parallel to the doorway, Mike can see the Chief’s hand hovering above the gun at his waist. 

Then he hears his mother’s voice asking for him, before the door is fully opened and he catches sight of her standing there, looking windswept. Mike quickly pulls himself out his chair and joins the Chief by the front door. 

“Mom?” he looks over at her, “What are you doing here?” Karen pulls him in to a tight hug, her face distraught. But she doesn't answer his question, instead speaking over his head at Hopper, as Mike tries to pull away from her vice-like grip.

“There was a man,” she says, her words quick and terse, “From the Department of Energy. He came to my door and he wanted to see Mike—Elle—both—oh, Jesus, Hopper I don’t know. What’s going on? Michael, is your sister here too?” Mike’s about to open his mouth to answer, to say that Nancy went with Steve and Jonathan to the gas station, but Hopper is already speaking. 

“This man,” he says, “Did he give you a name?”

“Jacob,” Karen replies, finally loosening her grip enough for Mike to slide away. “He looked so…awful, Jim. And he said that the girl is…”

“Elle,” Mike interjects glumly, “She has a name!” 

“Sorry, dear.” Karen glances at him apologetically, “He mentioned that Elle is dangerous because she brought something back from…wherever she was.” Karen doesn’t want to think about that part. Hopper, looking a little perplexed, rounds on Mike. 

“Do you know anything about this, Mike?” Hopper asks. Mike’s heart skips a beat. He opens and closes his mouth several times, wondering how to start. Noticing Hopper’s eyebrows raised in his direction, Mike takes a deep breath. 

“Elle did this thing,” he finally mutters, “Out in the forest with Will. This, I don’t know, gas…maybe…came out of her hands and the slug he puked up just disappeared and…”

“And you didn’t think to mention this before?” Hopper looks at him blankly, his lips a thin slash across his face. Mike shrugs and rubs the back of his neck nervously.

“I guess it might have been helpful,” he says quietly, “But Elle asked me not to.” Only vaguely does he realize the hypocrisy of keeping this secret when he had, just hours ago, yelled at Will for such a thing. 

“Michael…” his mother begins, but Hopper shakes his head. 

“I think I know what’s going on,” he licks his lips, “Karen, I need you to do me a favour.” 

“Anything,” Karen nods, her face set in determination. 

\--- 

Less than an hour later, just past noon, Karen’s perfectly manicured hands are fidgeting with a thin paper napkin. She’s seated, as nonchalantly as possible, in a booth at the diner that once belonged to Benny Hammond, a man she remembers from high school, a man whose death four years ago she’s only just starting to realize was likely not a suicide. 

Karen watches, unblinkingly, as a dark car pulls up outside in the parking lot. Jacob exits from the driver’s side, apparently alone—as is she. Straightening her back, Karen waves, ever so slightly, as he enters the diner, removing the familiar dark sunglasses and casting his eyes around. Upon seeing her greeting, Jacob strides over to her and slips fluidly into the spot across the table from her. Karen fakes a short smile. 

“I’m glad you agreed to meet with me, Mrs. Wheeler,” he returns a smile of his own, one that grates on Karen’s nerves. It’s an attempt to be charming, she’s sure, but something about that smile puts her on edge; it’s disconcerting, to say the least. 

“Actually,” Karen steadies the shaking in her voice and folds her hands in front of her on the table, “I was told it would be for the best.” 

On cue, Hopper appears over her shoulder, having moved from his spot three booths back and to the left. Jacob visibly pales and it gives Karen a secret thrill of pleasure to see him squirm. 

“Jim,” Jacob holds out his hand, attempting to recover, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here as well.” His voice is dry, slightly angry. Karen is certain that if this were not such a public place, if it were not crowded with a lunchtime crowd, this meeting would be developing very differently. Hopper doesn’t bother to sit down. He hovers over the table, like an angry shadow, hand dangerously close to his gun. 

“You’ve got thirty seconds, Carter,” Hopper’s voice is authoritative, unamused, “Tell me what the fuck is going on and why I’ve really been keeping that little girl alive. What sick, twisted shit are you people up to?” 

“You have to understand, Jim,” Jacob begins, his fingers drumming on the table nervously, “We invested too much time and money into Project Eleven to just…” 

“She’s a human being!” Karen exclaims, her eyes narrowing and her folded hands splaying out across the table in rage. 

“Karen,” Hopper growls a low warning at her.

“No Jim,” Karen is insistent, “She was just a little girl. Don’t _you_ understand that?” She fixes Jacob with a look that would cause her children to wither. He purses his lips and tilts his head at her. 

“I’d like to be brief,” Jacob mutters, “If you don’t mind. We only want what she has. We’re willing to move on from Project Elev…” Karen’s glare makes his voice catch in his throat, “We’re willing to let the girl be. All I need is a blood sample.”

“You want her powers,” Hopper fills in the gap, “You want that gassy stuff she brought back from that hellhole.” Jacob nods a confirmation.

“It can be weaponized,” he says, “Give us that and we’ll leave the girl alone forever. She can become your problem.” 

For a moment, terse silence settles over the table. Karen opens her mouth to protest, but Jim has already reached his hand out. “It’s a deal.” The two men shake on it. 

Back in the Chief’s cruiser, Karen’s stomach is twisting. “You mean to tell me she stayed there by _choice_ , all these years?” With a sigh, Karen slides down in the passenger seat. The Chief nods, glancing in her direction as he pulls out of the diner parking lot.

“She’s been keeping us all safe,” Hopper reveals to her gently, “But I think she mostly did it for Mike. You know,” he clears his throat, “I left supplies for her in this little box in the woods. No idea how, but she once carved his name into one of my Tupperware containers. I ended up lifting a picture of him and the boys from one of Will’s scrapbooks and left it for her. It was gone when I went back.” 

“Don’t you dare ever tell him that,” Karen warns, her eyes flashing despite the tears falling from them, “It would destroy him.” 

“Yes ma’am,” Hopper nods curtly, his eyes going back to the road as Karen rests her head against the glass of the window and watches Hawkins—a town she no longer recognizes—rush by at 40 miles an hour. 

\---

When Eleven’s eyes open, she notices that Will’s bedroom, where she’s been napping, is dark, lit only by the dim lamplight under which Mike is reading. As soon as she stirs, he looks up and over at her, his face lighting up into a small smile. Mike closes the book he’s working on, the same from the hotel room, and tosses it aside. As he stands from the spot he’s been seated in for hours, his back audibly cracks. Eleven winces but he laughs and walks over to her. 

“Hungry?” Mike asks, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, his hands coming to rest on the plaid comforter. “Joyce made hot dogs for dinner.” Eleven crawls out from under the blankets and takes a seat next to him, tucking her borrowed skirt in around her knees. She shakes her head; too nervous to eat, her stomach is floating somewhere in her throat. 

“Are you sure?” Mike’s forehead wrinkles with concern. 

“Promise,” Eleven whispers, noting the hoarseness of her voice. Instinctively, she reaches out for Mike’s hand, a gesture he returns immediately, intertwining his fingers with hers. She notices, somewhere in the back of her mind, that he’s less guarded with her than when she had first returned, sought him out to help her. His body language is softer and he doesn’t tense up when they touch. Eleven wonders if he’s forgiven her for leaving, for hiding from him all these years, for letting him think the worst so that she could protect him. 

“It’s dark now,” Mike says, trying to keep his voice casual, avoiding looking at her face. She nods, her throat too dry to speak. She can feel, in the pit of her stomach, in the back of her mind, the pull of the creatures that are hunting her, their desire to break into this world. _Let them come,_ says a small voice in the back of her head, strong and defiant, _We’ll kill them all. We’ll fight for our friends. For Mike._

“Elle?” Mike’s grip on her hand tightens ever so slightly. His thumb grazes the cool skin on the back of her knuckles as she turns to look at him, their eyes meeting. “Are you going to disappear again?” The question sends a pang of guilt shooting through her heart, a frown etching itself onto her pale face.

“I…” she pauses, steadying the quivering of her lower lip, “I don’t know.” She draws her eyes away from his with a concentrated effort, unable to bring herself to confront, their concern. 

“Because,” Mike continues, “I can’t do that all again. If you’re going to leave me again, I can’t…” Mike finds that, here, words fail him. He grates his teeth together and, instead of struggling to speak, wraps his arms around her shoulders. Eleven is tense for a moment, shoulders squared, back straight. But then, without a word, she sinks into Mike’s warmth, both familiar and not. 

“I want to stay,” she whispers against his shoulder. 

“Then stay,” Mike speaks into her tousled hair, noting how the citrus scent of Nancy’s shampoo lingers there.

Someone clears their throat in the doorway. Mike and Eleven pull apart and look up at Dustin, a toothy smile plastered on his face, though Mike can see that way its forced, as if painted there. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, “But Nancy says it’s time.” 

“Give us a sec, please?” Mike looks up at Dustin. The fear and uncertainty that Dustin sees flash across his friend’s face reminds him of the day Mike stepped off a cliff to protect him. Mike Wheeler—always a hero, but never wanting to admit when he needs saving. 

“Sure thing, man.” Dustin nods with understanding and steps out of the room, closing the door gently behind him. 

Mike turns back to Eleven and pulls her hands back to his, tangling his fingers with hers again. 

“Promise me you’ll stay,” he says pleadingly. 

“I can’t,” she replies, feeling the warmth of tears prickle at the back of her eyes, “I don’t want to lie.” 

“Elle,” Mike scoots closer to her, his jeans brushing against the soft, wrinkled fabric of her skirt, “I…” 

Eleven leans in to him, her head coming to rest in the crook of his neck, breathing in the same vanilla that she smelled on his pillows and mint from the gum he’s chewing. She feels his hands very gently snake around her shoulders, loosely holding her. Her arms move around his chest and squeeze, not wanting to let go. She feels Mike’s grip on her tighten. 

“I’m scared Mike,” she whispers, “Not strong enough.”

Mike feels his heart clench in his chest before it breaks. He wants to tell her that it will be okay, that she doesn't have to stand and fight, that they can run away and be together and start a new life without any monsters. But he knows, by the very virtue of the things she can do, that’s not a life she’ll ever have. And he can’t lie to her; he can’t make a promise he can’t keep—not again. Mike reaches for her chin and pulls it up towards him, looking into her eyes, holding her gaze. Somehow, he feels far older than sixteen and twelve again at the same time. 

“Elle,” Mike speaks with bated breath. He can barely keep his knees from knocking together when he looks into her trusting eyes, his stomach twisting. What does he want to say? What can he possibly say? “I…I care about you,” he chokes out, then, after a beat of silence, to himself and under his breath, “No. Fuck that." 

Mike draws in a deep breath. “I love you.” 

Eleven smiles and closes her eyes, breathing against him, listening to his heart beat in his chest. _Love._ Part of her wants to cry, but a light, purposeful feeling surges through her chest and strengthens her. She’s never been told she’s loved before. In her visits to Mike over the years, she had heard him exchange the word with his mother and sisters; with his friends, and whisper it to her in the secrecy of night. But here, face to face, to be told she’s loved after having patched together a definition from the smiles and warmth that were shared after each use of the word—this makes her feel ready. And maybe it’s not true—maybe Mike doesn’t feel that way about her, maybe he’s only fooled himself into thinking such a thing. But, for the time being, Eleven lets herself believe. Because she needs to believe she’s loved. 

_I love you too, Mike,_ she wants to reply, _That’s why I need to do this._

She stays quiet though. Instead, her hand leaves Mike’s and very delicately comes to rest on his cheek. His skin is so warm, so different than hers. She commits the contours of his face, the feeling of his skin against hers, to memory—just in case she’s forced to leave again. Eleven feels a tear drop onto her hand and glances up at Mike, as he hastily wipes at his eyes, cheeks red. 

“C’mon,” he mutters, squeezing her hands, “We should go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, your friendly neighbourhood Val here. Just want to reiterate my thanks to all those who are reading this. Please leave me your thoughts in the comments—I'm always glad to read them. 
> 
> Much love,  
> Val


	6. Under the pale moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: Language, violence & a little bit of gore

Under the pale yellow glint of the moonlight, Eleven drags her feet through the dirt, towards the small, somewhat derelict shed behind the Byers’s house. With each step forward, she takes great care to mask the feelings of reluctance and dread knotting together deep in the pit of her stomach, hiding them from the small group of people following along close behind her; people whom she has grown to care for quite deeply. She can hear their soft footfalls echoing her own and their muted whispers to one another travelling on the gentle evening breeze. 

Reaching the shed, Eleven presses a hand against the slow-rotting wooden door, its decrepitude partially hidden by a relatively fresh coat of beige paint that Hopper had applied earlier that summer. Under the pressure of her touch, the hinges creak and the door slowly swings open, allowing Eleven to step into the small dark room. She resists the memories that gather on the fringes of her mind; beating back the cache of images from her life before Mike—before any of the people standing behind her lending her their support—when she would have been put in a room smaller and darker than this one as punishment. Eleven reminds herself, with a steeling of her nerves, that this is her choice—her duty. 

Drawing herself away from those threatening memories, Eleven hears Mike step into the room behind her, the aged floorboards groaning under his weight. She turns towards him just as he switches on the light, a single bulb flickering to life over their heads. Hesitantly, Eleven flashes him a soft smile, hoping to offer him some reassurance, but the vacant look on Mike’s face takes time to dissipate. Eleven swallows and drags her eyes from Mike’s face just as he forces a smile to his lips, an attempt, she’s sure, to buoy her up. She allows her gaze to instead fall upon the cluster of people gathered just outside the shed door, all now looking at her expectantly.

There’s Joyce, who had whispered encouraging words to her while helping to tie her shoelaces in the kitchen. A nervous energy is very visibly coursing through Joyce’s body, causing her fingers to twitch against the handle of the axe she’s gripping with ferocity. Hopper’s beside her, the sleeves of his plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows and gun already in hand. Though he looks intimidating and confident, Eleven cannot see past the uncertainty in his eyes so she looks beyond him, unwilling to face his disquietude. 

Steve, her newest friend—she thinks—is a few feet back, holding what Mike had called a _baseball bat_ with rusted nails sticking out of it at random angles. Mike had explained that, usually, such a tool was used in a sport he didn’t have time to make intelligible, but promised to one day take her to watch. Nancy is firmly fixed beside Steve, with a gun tucked into the pocket of her sweater and a red canister of gasoline in the hand that isn’t intertwined with his. Near them, Dustin stands, taller and leaner than the last time they had fought a monster together, also gripping a baseball bat tightly, though his is not adorned with nails. Lucas wears his familiar slingshot, the Wrist-Rocket, hanging from a belt loop on the waist of his jeans. It would almost look childish if not for the hefty hammer resting in his hands, borrowed from under Joyce’s kitchen sink, where Hopper keeps his tools. 

Eleven is most captivated by Jonathan, who stands on the side of Nancy opposite to Steve, his face set in a scowl of determination. The weapon he’s holding impresses her—something Mike had labelled a _crossbow_. Apparently, as Mike had informed her, it could kill things from a distance, using the arrows Jonathan has slung in a pack over his shoulder. Eleven secretly wishes that all her friends were armed with such a weapon. 

Standing somewhat apart from the group is Karen, whom Mike couldn’t convince to leave earlier. She watches her daughter and son nervously, eyes flitting between them as a hand plays through her hair. For Karen, today has been a crash course in strange and though she’s tempted to gather up her children by force and convey them home, she knows that’s not an option. Not only would they never forgive her, but they also seem more comfortable, more alive than she’s ever seen them before. It frightens and inspires her at the same time.

Mike, by her side, carries only a crowbar, a sight that makes Eleven incredibly afraid for him. She wants to ask him—tell him—to better protect himself, but before she can formulate the words, Nancy speaks up.

“Is everyone ready?” she asks aloud. In response, she receives a round of quiet murmurs. Nodding curtly, Nancy’s gaze turns towards Eleven. “Are you ready El?” 

“Yes.” Eleven closes her eyes and listens. She’s able to distinguish the closeness of the Upside Down, the fragility of the walls between worlds. She can sense the darkness deepening, surprised that she cannot yet hear the Shadow in her head. In the silence that’s descended over the Byers’s shed, Eleven sends her mind out in search of Will. 

He’s close—and he’s not alone. She takes a step forward, away from Mike and towards the back wall of the shed. With each step, she feels the pull of darkness and despair. Once she can go no further, Eleven gently places her palm against the planks that form the shed’s wall, fingers splayed out against the cool surface. 

“Will?” she whispers, closing her eyes, “Are you there?” 

The light bulb overhead hums and blinks, a faint buzzing sound filling the tiny shed. With amazement, Mike watches as the wall begins to crumble away beneath Eleven’s hand, the wood splintering into nothing more than sawdust until Will’s lanky frame becomes visible. His palm is pressed against Eleven’s, his fingers curling against hers as he stumbles forward. 

On either side of him is a small blonde girl, trembling in fear. Joyce is the first to react, her axe clattering to the floor as she launches herself into the shed and towards Will, falling to her knees beside him and cradling him in her arms. Hopper follows close behind her, kneeling down by the Macpherson girls and wrapping an arm around each of them. 

Eleven steps back and, while all eyes are one the people in front of her, she focuses just beyond them into the dark void formed in the wall of the shed. She feels Mike’s shoulder graze her own, feels his hand clasp around her own and his fingers apply pressure. He looks out into the void, following her line of sight and does not, as he expects, see the forest on the other side of the wall. Rather, there’s smoke and ash and darkness. The Upside Down. 

“They’re coming,” Eleven mutters so that only Mike can hear. 

“It’ll be okay,” he whispers into her ear and though Eleven doesn’t believe him, though she can hear the wavering in his voice, she appreciates his efforts.

By their feet, Will is grasping his mother’s hand, grinning at her as she cries, insisting that he’s well enough to get up. 

“Will,” Hopper begins, but he’s cut off by Will shaking his head.

“There’s no one else,” Will croaks out and Hopper wonders, briefly, how Will anticipated his question—how he knew he was going to ask about the other missing folks. Mike watching as the scene unfolds, catches Will’s eye and smiles. 

“I’m sorry,” Will gasps in Mike’s direction and Eleven feels Mike pull away from her, towards his friend. She doesn’t resist as his hand falls out of her own, though she would have liked to keep him close. Mike stands over Joyce’s shoulder and looks down at Will, a small smile lighting up his face.

“Don’t be sorry,” Mike whispers, “You did it—you came home and you saved those kids.” He wants to continue speaking; wants to tell Will that he’s a hero, that he’s sorry for what he said earlier, but Hopper interjects. 

“Get him inside.” The instructions are delivered to Joyce while Hopper gestures for Jonathan to come into the shed and help his mother. Obediently, Jonathan bustles over and greets his brother, pushing past Mike in the now-cramped shed. 

“Come on mom,” Jonathan says, tugging lighting at her arm. Joyce nods and, with some assistance from Jonathan, helps Will to his feet, leading him into the house under the tacit agreement that he’s not to join them in the ensuing fight. Hopper watches them go before looking over the crowd of remaining people and calling out to Karen. 

“Karen?” At Hopper’s call, Karen enters the shed, her step tentative. She musters up a smile for the doe-eyed girls under each of the Chief’s arms. “I need you to bring these girls someplace safe until this is over. They can’t go home yet, but…”

“Jim, I can’t,” Karen breathes, her smile disappearing as she shakes her head vigorously. “My kids…”

“Mom,” Nancy takes a step forward and, despite the rolling of her eyes, her face is sympathetic. “We’ll be fine. I promise.” 

Karen turns towards her daughter, eyeing the bat in Steve’s hands and the gun in Nancy’s pocket, and then shakes her head firmly, once. Mike can tell she’s near to tears; it’s the look that used to cross her face when he would refuse to get out bed after Eleven’s disappearance—helpless and hopeless. 

“Mom,” Mike licks his lips as he steps over to his mother’s side and looks her directly in the eye, “Two days ago, I shot at a monster with seven heads. Nancy did too—it’s kind of what she does now.” He lays everything on the table, all his cards, figuring there’s no point in hiding anything now. “There’s a lot of really messed up stuff about to come through that gate—” briefly, he gestures at the hole in the shed’s back wall, “But me and Nancy will be fine. These girls need to get away from here.” 

“Michael, you…” Karen gapes, her hands trembling. 

“Mom, please,” Mike continues, “Remember what you taught me? Sometimes, the people we love don’t need our protection. I love you mom, but those little girls need your help more than me and Nancy right now.” Nearly taller than his her now, Mike leans forward and plants a kiss on his mother’s cheek, squeezing her hands with certainty. 

\--- 

Mike isn’t really sure how long they’ve been fighting, how many small fires his sister has started, how many broken bones and bleeding wounds Joyce is nursing inside, how many curse words have streamed out of Dustin’s mouth, how many times he’s watched a toxic black substance leak out of Eleven’s hands and break a monster into a million pieces. At this particular moment in time, he isn’t really sure of anything except the eerily snake-like creature slithering towards him with glowing green eyes and fangs bared, a cobra, but impossibly larger and seemingly made of clay; an ashy grey colour with an irregular pattern of jagged diamonds running down its scaly back. Mike raises his arms as the creature approaches, nails in the bat glinting dangerously as he plants his feet firmly on the ground, ready to strike. 

Moments earlier, Mike had watched this monster lunge at Steve, hit him straight in the chest, fangs bared. He had watched Nancy scream, hands flying to her face, watched Steve soar backwards into the trunk of a tree as the bat arced with graceful morbidity before it came crashing down to Earth. He had watched as Jonathan dropped his crossbow and arrows and ran over to them, helping Nancy to carry a rapidly paling and generously bleeding Steve into the house. Mike had watched as Lucas ran over and grabbed the crossbow, dropping his hammer in favour of the projectile weapon. He had watched as the snake rounded on him and shouted for the bat, yet again managing an unlikely catch as it was rolled in his direction. If he survived tonight, perhaps he’d consider sports in September. 

Now, from the corner of his eye, Mike sees Dustin and Lucas circling around a creature resembling the very first Demogorgon they had ever faced, arrows already sticking out of its body at odd angles. Lucas has a large gash across his back, clothing and skin torn, but he’s holding that discarded crossbow with a fierce and determined expression set on his face. On the other side of the yard, he sees Eleven. Her powers, along with the toxic substance that leaks from her hands, has helped them stay alive so far. But now she’s wandering away from them, back to the shed as if mesmerized, a look of determination even stronger than Lucas’s on her face. Mike has a sick feeling that he knows what she’s about to do—her face had changed when Steve went flying into that tree. 

With unbridled rage, Mike lifts his arm, watching dark blood drip from the bat. The snake coursing towards him coils its body upwards and prepares to lunge. With every pent up emotion; every bit of anger, guilt, and sadness; every thought of Eleven doing this for four long and lonely years, Mike swings. 

His blow lands, the bat catching the snake’s bite, the creature closing its mouth around the wooden object made lethal with old nails. Furious, the snake pulls back and Mike, rather than letting go, is jerked forward. He feels his arm become dislocated from his shoulder, feels the searing pain that goes down his back. He supposes its better than a bite from those fangs though. 

Refocusing his efforts, Mike switches his grip to his uninjured arm and pulls back, hard, bringing the snake’s upper half collapsing to the Earth, sending up a cloud of dust. Twisting, Mike manages to get the snake belly-up and steps firmly on a spot he imagines is more or less its throat. Placing all his weight on his left foot, Mike pulls the bat back again. This time, the creature gives up and it comes flying from its mouth covered in black blood and green spittle. One fang is embedded in the wood and bits of putrid flesh hang off the nails. With a cry that verges on the animal, Mike raises the bat over his head and brings it crashing down onto the soft flesh of the creature’s underside. He hits the monster again and again until his arms are ready to give out, until everything below his knees is covered in filth and grime and blood, until he feels a soft hand, a human hand, come down on his pained shoulder. 

“Mike, it’s dead.” Dustin pulls him back and Lucas, crossbow now slung over his shoulder, gently unknits Mike’s fingers from the bat. 

“I think we won,” Lucas gives a small smile, though it’s quickly replaced by a wince of pain, “But my back’s fucked.” Mike shakes his head.

“I don’t think so. Not yet.” Mike is about to pull a match out of his pocket and light it, to burn the body under his foot, but the snake begins to disintegrate before his eyes. At the same time, the night suddenly grows darker, as if the stars and moon have been blotted out from the sky, despite a definite lack of clouds. 

“What the fuck?” Dustin breathes. Mike’s eyes grow wide.

“El!” he shouts, dropping the unlit match and taking off running towards the shed, suddenly remembering the sickened and resolute expression she had been wearing. As he enters the small room, Mike notices Eleven standing wide-eyed, staring into the void they had torn open earlier. Mike reaches out to touch her arm, but she shakes her head and steps away from him.

“What’s happening?” Lucas asks, as he and Dustin skid to a halt behind Mike.

“Shadow.” Eleven’s voice is barely a whimper, “Go.” 

“No way,” Lucas beats Mike to the refusal, positioning himself defensively, his voice firm. He’s unshouldering the crossbow and loading it with an arrow, ready to defend fight. Eleven shakes her head and turns away from them just as darkness fills the room, the bulb overhead shattering, all light evacuated from the small space, replaced by a deep, bone-tingling chill. Mike holds his hand up in front of his face, but cannot even manage to see his fingers. A smell, like sulphur, curls into his nostrils and makes him choke. And suddenly, he feels pain wrack his body, every muscle feeling like it’s been lit on fire, despite the iciness of his skin. Mike gasps as his chest tightens and his stomach twists. He calls out for Dustin and Lucas, for Eleven, but can’t hear his own words. 

From the boundless darkness, Mike perceives a shadowy hand reaching out towards him. For a moment, he thinks he catches a glimpse of flowing red eyes just before the hand wraps itself around him. Without warning, Mike collapses to the ground, weak. His chest feels as though it’s collapsing in on him, as though there will never be light again. An empty feeling cascades through his body, and Mike is transported back to that night in the science classroom as he watched Eleven tear herself apart to save him.

A voice, disembodied and cold, sounds in his head. 

_I will take her from you Michael Wheeler. I will break her._

Mike can feel hot tears in his eyes, can feel his fingers clawing at the floorboards of the shed, the splintered skin and the blood pooling under his nails. He can hear his own voice, aloud or in his head—he’s not sure, begging for Eleven’s safety. 

“Stop.” 

Eleven’s voice rings out, firm, unmistakably aloud, dissipating the fog in his mind. The darkness is the shed has dissolved just enough for Mike to look around and catch sight of his friends doubled over, their lips moving silently. He knows they’re still under the monster’s spell so he crawls over to Dustin first and wraps an arm around his shoulder. 

“Dustin,” he whispers into her ear, “Dustin, it’s Mike. I’m here.” 

With his back turned, Mike only hears screaming, but it’s not Eleven’s—that’s a sound he’ll never forget. No, this is higher, subhuman, something like the screeching of an owl. When Mike turns around, away from Dustin who’s slowly coming out of his own fog, he sees Eleven, standing with her shoulders slumped and arms outstretched. Her hands face outwards, in front of her, and her hair is sticking to her face with sweat and blood, dripping from her ears. There’s also blood flowing from her nose, staining the front of the torn white blouse she wears. Her lips are cracked and she looks more exhausted than Mike can remember ever seeing her. He quickly scrambles to his feet and approaches her from behind, touching her shoulder gently while Dustin drags himself over to Lucas. 

“We did it…” Mike speaks softly despite his heaving chest, a symptom of the burning in his lungs and the beating of his heart. The words, coming out as more of a question than a statement, fill the compact room and are met with silence from Dustin and Lucas; Dustin remains doubled over and catching his breath while Lucas has managed to sit up, looking around nervously, eyes flitting from the empty void in front of them to Mike’s pallid face. Eleven stands by them, weak and trembling, nothing but adrenaline keeping her upright. None of the boys seem to notice, likely because they’re all somewhere between the verge of going in to shock and recovery from the images that had been broadcast into their minds. When Eleven hears Mike’s words, she comes back to herself, turning towards him as her knees suddenly fail. 

“Not dead,” she sighs. With a whimper, Eleven sinks into Mike. He’s stronger now than he was four years ago and, despite his own injuries, his arms break her fall and wrap around her protectively. One arm sinks to her waist, anchoring her body to his, while his other hand comes up, wrapped in the hem of his t-shirt, his thumb delicately brushing away the blood over her lip. 

“No.” Mike shakes his head, “It’s done. It’s over.” He’s willing his words to be true despite his awareness that Eleven knows better than him. Her eyes fill with tears as she gently pushes Mike’s hand away and shakes her head. 

“Will,” she chokes out, “Shadow.” The words are mangled, broken. Mike swallows hard and glances over at Lucas and Dustin, both of whom are now focused on Eleven, both of whom look nauseous. Mike squeezes his eyes shut, exhausted, desperate for this to end. Gathering what little strength he has left, he bends his knees and carefully picks Eleven up, his arms sliding underneath her knees and pulling her up and into his chest, where her head comes to rest by his shoulder. For a moment, he stands and cradles her in his arms, his chest aching at how light she is. 

Staggering, Mike makes his way out of the shed and into the house, not caring if Dustin and Lucas follow. He feels detached, as though he’s left his body somewhere out in the night. Sure, he can feel Eleven trembling against him, but his mind is beyond this experience. He wants to stop, wants to bend over and empty the contents of his stomach onto the grass, but he can’t. So he keeps going, all the while struggling to think of how he’s going to explain this to Joyce. _Joyce, Will is a monster. Or a host for a monster. I’m actually not that sure, but Eleven needs to deal with it and…_

Vaguely, as Mike lurches through the living room, he notices Steve sprawled across the couch, a bloody and broken mess. But, he’s breathing. And Nancy, with a determinedly grim face, is working on bandaging his chest while Jonathan strokes his fingers gently, muttering soft words. 

“We’re going to have to go to the hospital,” Mike hears his sister mumble as he passes by them, unnoticed. Pushing himself forward, Mike carries Eleven into Will’s room. His friend lays motionless in bed, eyes closed and skin an unnatural grey colour. Mike’s oddly reminded of the corpses in zombie movies and a shudder runs up his spine. Joyce is hovering over her son, hands splayed over the patterned sheets, lips thin and pale. Mike’s mind is still rapidly firing ideas for a tactful way to get her out of the room when Joyce turns to him, her eyes wide, red and puffy.

“He’s sick,” Joyce croaks, pulling Mike away from his thoughts. “This isn’t my Will. Can you help?”

Mike sets Eleven down delicately so that she’s seated on the edge of Will’s bed. It feels like an eternity ago that they were sitting there, with him confessing his love. Mike wants to go back to that—so desperately that it makes him ache. He wants to take Eleven home, cuddle with her on the couch in the basement and wait for her to fall asleep on his shoulder. 

“Yes,” Eleven answers, nodding at Joyce. Her eyes fall on Will and she frowns deeply, “But alone.”

“I’m not leaving you, Elle,” Mike says firmly without missing a beat, “You’ll have to throw me out.” 

“Mike’s right, sweetie.” Joyce nods her support. “We’re here with you.” 

For a moment, Eleven contemplates it, seriously considering picking them up with her mind and forcing them out of the room. But she refrains; the pragmatic side of her knowing she needs to conserve her energy for what’s about to happen, the frightened side not wanting to be alone. 

“Door,” Eleven instructs them adamantly. Joyce shuffles away from Will’s bed, taking a spot by the door beside Mike. Together, they watch as Eleven draws in a deep breath and clambers onto the bed, her legs straddling Will’s chest, eerily devoid of motion.

“Elle?” Mike’s voice rings out. She turns her head slightly towards him, awaiting his words, “Please be careful.” He feels Joyce’s grip on his hand tighten, her palm clammy against his own. Mike squeezes her hand back. This is terrifying for both of them. 

Eleven smiles crookedly, weakly. She remembers the words Mike had uttered to her in this room just hours ago and wonders if she should now return them. But she has no idea what’s going to happen and she can’t—she won’t—allow herself to say those words despite their lingering on the tip of her tongue. If she goes back to the Upside Down, if she dies, Mike can’t hold on forever. She doesn’t want him to. 

Mike watches as Eleven turns back to Will, her hands beginning to glow, covered in that same gaseous substance from earlier. With horror, his wide eyes follow along as Eleven brings her hands down to Will’s chest, hesitating for a moment before she plunges her fists directly through his shirt and skin. Will’s eyes shoot open, only they aren’t Will’s eyes—they’re the deepest shade of black Mike has ever seen and he can’t help the gasp that goes through his body. He hears Joyce utter a terrified moan beside him and Mike tightens his grip on her, pulls her arm towards him so she doesn’t go over to the bed. 

“Close your eyes,” Eleven’s voice rings out and Mike obeys, hoping that Joyce is doing the same—from the sound of sobbing beside him, he assumes that’s the case. A horrific humming, like the sound of a thousand wasps, fills the air and Mike resists the urge to cover his ears; holding on to Joyce is more important. He can feel the door behind him rattle, someone trying to get in; it’s locked—he had made sure of that—but he throws his weight against it just to be sure, dragging Joyce with him. 

Even through his closed eyes, Mike perceives that it’s bright—so bright that it seems like daytime has come to Will’s bedroom as the light bulbs working overtime until there’s the sound of shattering glass and the room is engulfed in darkness. Mike can’t hear anything except for his heart in his ears and heavy breathing. He zeroes in on that breathing, trying to ascertain how many people are in the room, terrified to open his eyes. 

“Elle?” he ventures, voice quaking, hoping, praying to whatever god is listening, that when he looks, she’ll still be there. Joyce’s hand is no longer in his. 

Mike falls away from the door, trembling as it opens and the lights—those that didn’t crack—slowly come back to life. 

He opens his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real talk: this was the most difficult thing I've ever written. Seriously. Action is hard to write so I tried to keep it at a minimum—and to be perfectly honest I'm not sure how I feel about the way this chapter turned out, but happy probably isn't the best word to describe those feelings. Feedback and thoughts would be fantastic. 
> 
> Will Eleven be there when Mike opens his eyes? Tune in next time to find out! 
> 
> Thanks to all you readers and commenters—please keep your support coming. 
> 
> Cheers,  
> V.


	7. Choose your own adventure

_One Year Later_

Mike’s fingers pick at the dust trapped in the washed out brown carpet as he stares up at the stucco on the ceiling, looking for images in the uneven bumps, but finding only remnants of spider webs. He has to strain his eyes to see anything at all up there, as the only light comes from a small table lamp plugged in just over his head. Knees drawn into his chest, Mike sits leaning into the crook between a flimsy old writing desk and a wall with the most hideous wallpaper he can ever remember laying eyes on. Absently, he pulls at a loose thread in the carpet until it comes loose, a miniscule cloud of grime raised by the disturbance. This brings Mike back to himself and with disgust he tosses away the fluff. 

Beside him on the floor, to his left, sits Steve, legs kicked out in front of him, nonchalantly leaning back on the palms of his hands. It’s humid in their cheap motel room, so Steve feels no shame in wearing only a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms—though Mike assumes he’d feel no shame regardless of the temperature. Pants resting low on his waist, Steve’s trim stomach muscles are left exposed, along with the jagged scar across his abdomen, earned the previous summer during a fight that Mike would rather forget. Somehow, the scar only manages to make Steve look more handsome, more dangerous—a look only amplified by the unlit cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. Nancy had made him quit smoking years ago, but every so often, she turns the other way while he indulges. 

On Mike’s other side is Jonathan, sitting cross-legged and wiping a smudge off the lens of his camera, resting it in his sweatpants-clad lap. Mike watches as Jonathan lifts the black device and quickly, stealthily, snaps a picture of Steve who, at the telling sound of the shutter’s click, looks away from the wallpaper (he too thinks its grotesquely ugly) and over to Jonathan. Steve’s eyebrows knit together on his forehead and he purses his lips, playing offended. 

“What’d you do that for Byers?” Steve’s lips don’t stay in their expression of mock-disapproval for long. Rather, they spread into a wide and impish grin—his characteristic expression these days.

“You looked a bit like Rob Lowe from that angle,” Jonathan retorts with a shrug, feigning disinterest, glad for the cover of darkness to hide the fire creeping up on his cheeks—he’s still not entirely sure how he feels about Mike knowing their secret, worried that he’ll let it slip to Will one day. 

“Oh yeah?” Steve’s grin widens, “I guess I can see the resemblance.” Without warning, he reaches over, wrapping a muscled arm around Mike’s shoulders. He pulls the scrawnier—but still taller—boy into a playful headlock, mussing up his already unruly hair with a light fist. 

“Steve!” Mike struggles against Steve’s grip, “Get off of me you moron!” He’s eventually able to push himself free, though not before Jonathan manages to snap a few pictures. 

Nancy, from her spot between the two older boys, shushes them and rolls her eyes. She’s been trying to ignore their antics and read that morning’s newspaper. 

“How old are you guys again?” she asks. Laying flat on her stomach, legs kicked up behind her and propped up on her elbows, Nancy completes their circle.

“Nance,” Steve turns to her, suddenly serious, “You’re gonna get some sort of disease from that carpet.” 

“You’re so dramatic Steve Harrington.” Nancy rolls her eyes again, but folds up the newspaper and slides into a seated position, tucking her legs underneath her. 

“Like Rob Lowe?” Steve grins, looking back at Jonathan and jokingly striking a pose for the camera, his hands coming up to rest in his hair. 

“Gag,” Mike mutters, earning a laugh from Jonathan who makes a show of placing his camera off to the side, ignoring Steve’s attempts at humour. For a moment, Mike glances at the people surrounding him and feels content. Since last year, his life has normalized. Of course, that wasn’t to say things had become normal—they had only just fallen into a routine. Classes and campaigns during the year with Lucas, Dustin, and Will and monster hunting in the summer—a task his three best friends weren’t exactly allowed to join in on. This practice of leading a double-life had worked for Nancy, Steve, and Jonathan all these years and Mike had proven himself more than capable of joining them. He finds it cathartic in a way—a means of dealing with all the guilt he still feels about Eleven. 

Outside the window an owl hoots, disturbing the comfortable silence that had fallen over the four people gathered on the floor of a dingy and drab motel room in the _apparently_ charming little town of Perry, Ohio. At the noise, everyone’s shoulders tense and their faces pale. Then Nancy shakes her head and grins. 

“It’s been a long day,” she sighs. The other three nod in agreement, the mood instantly lightened once more. 

“You were pretty fierce out there today, Mike,” Jonathan comments, reaching out and patting his shoulder.

“Until he got slimed by that _thing_ ,” Steve laughs. Mike’s opposite shoulder becomes the target for one of Steve’s friendly punches and Mike joins in the laughter. 

“Seriously though, did you see it?” Mike’s animated tone does not match the disgusted expression written on his face. “It was so nasty!” Indeed, it had taken him forty minutes in the hotel’s shower—which only graced him with thirteen minutes of hot water—to remove the sickly green sludge out of his hair. 

“If you turn into a goblin in the middle of the night…” Jonathan grins, letting his voice trail off suggestively. 

“We’ll miss you bud.” Steve finishes the thought with a smile, miming a gun with his hand. Nancy rolls up the newspaper and uses it to gently smack Steve on the side of the head. 

“Jesus, Nance,” he grimaces, rubbing his cheek, “Byers started it.” 

“Well…” Nancy’s voice is cut off by the sound of Steve’s watch beeping, filling the tiny room with high-pitched notes until he hurriedly presses the button to mute it. 

“Midnight,” Steve grins, “Happy Birthday, Mikey-boy!” He reaches out to tousle Mike’s hair again, though the officially-now-seventeen-year-old blocks his arm. 

“Happy Birthday, Mike,” Nancy and Jonathan echo, each leaning over to hug him in turn. Mike smiles and thanks them as Jonathan reaches up and onto the writing desk, pulling down a small white box. Nancy takes a match out of the pocket of her oversized sweatshirt and lights it as Jonathan opens the box, revealing a decadent looking chocolate cupcake with peanut butter frosting—one that Mike had picked out from the town’s bakery earlier in the day. Nancy carefully guides the match over to the candle already sitting atop the cupcake and Jonathan sets the box down in front of Mike. 

“Wait,” Steve says suddenly, “Should we wake her?” He jerks his thumb towards the bed. Mike’s eyes wander over in the direction that Steve is pointing, to where a petite girl lays fast asleep, wrapped in a stiff comforter, undisturbed by their conversation and commotion. Mike shakes his head. 

“Let her sleep,” he insists, “She kicked ass today.”

Mike leans forward and gently blows out the candle, wishing for something like this life to continue for a long time. 

\--- 

When Mike’s eyes flutter open, it takes a moment for them to adjust to the lingering darkness that still blankets the room. Briefly, Mike wonders what woke him, attempting to remember if he’d had a dream and if it had been a good one. But he soon feels a familiar prod against his rib cage—the persistent feeling of which had drawn him from a deep sleep. Usually, he’s ticklish in that spot, but his body is heavy and tired so his nerves aren’t quite reacting. Instead of squirming, as he’d be apt to do on any other occasion of such touching, Mike rolls over and comes face-to-face with the serial prodder, with a girl he sometimes still has trouble believing isn’t a figment of his imagination. Her soft brown doe-eyes glitter, even in the darkness.

“Happy Birthday Mike,” Eleven whispers, smiling at him as she shifts her body closer to his, twisting their legs together into a perfect fit. She’s invaded the six inches of space Mike is always sure to keep between them as he falls asleep—if she wants to get closer, it’s her choice, but it’s a choice he always leaves up to her discretion. He places a soft kiss on the top of her forehead and feels her lips curl into a smile against his shoulder.

“Do you want to go outside?” Mike murmurs into her ear, his voice still thick with sleep. 

“Are you sure?” Eleven asks, drawing her head back so that she can look at him again, her cheek pressed up against the thick purple pillow she unremittingly travels with. Her eyes are wide with feigned innocence, an expression she’s still learning so that it manifests as something closer to shock. Mike smirks and resists the urge to laugh, partly because he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings and partly so that they keep from waking the other occupants of the room. 

“You wouldn’t have woken me up otherwise,” he reasons in a hushed voice. Eleven smiles and nods, pushing herself into a seated position and smoothing out the hair that now cascades in loose curls to just past her shoulders. Mike props himself up on an elbow just in time to catch her stifling a yawn, his heart swelling at the sight. 

Silently, they creep out of bed. Eleven pulls a pair of Mike’s striped socks over her bare feet, curling her toes in their warmth while Mike quickly snatches a blue sweatshirt from his luggage, slipping it on over the thin white t-shirt he wore to bed. They edge towards the door, past the other bed in the room, where Nancy sleeps sandwiched between Jonathan and Steve. As he pulls on his sneakers, Mike remembers the day his suspicions about the nature of Steve and Nancy’s friendship with Jonathan were confirmed. 

_“Jesus Nancy, what the…”_

_The words tumble, startled, from Mike’s mouth, hanging open in astonishment as he opens the door to Nancy and Steve’s apartment, grocery bags in hand. Eleven is just behind him, floating several bags and a large jug of orange juice down the hall from the elevator—hands-free telekinesis means groceries only ever take one trip._

_But groceries and the success of a single trip from his beat-up Jeep, a car he’d managed to purchase that spring, are the last things on Mike’s mind. He’s far more concerned with the tangle of bodies on the sofa—three bodies, all clothed, but still too close and joined at weird places._

_As Eleven enters the room, everyone turns red in the face but—mercifully—she doesn’t seem to notice._

_“Nancy,” Eleven says happily, “I bought the shampoo you said would make my hair more shiny.”_

_Later, after dinner, Jonathan and Steve are teaching Eleven to play Pictionary—mostly as a means to improve her vocabulary. Mike has climbed out to sit on the fire escape with a bottle of Coke and the latest issue of Detective Comics. He’s about a three-quarters of the way through when Nancy appears, sinking down to sit beside him._

_“Mike, listen it’s…” she begins, but Mike cuts her off._

_“Stop talking.” He covers his ears with his hands, his long hair curling between his fingers. “I don’t care who you’re…doing it with.” The words come out garbled and Mike’s cheeks are bright red in the slowly fading daylight. Nancy almost laughs—for as mature as her little brother is at almost seventeen, the fact that he can’t bring himself to say sex amuses her._

_“Please don’t tell mom,” she entreats him, serious once again, “I don’t think she’d be able to deal.”_

_“I won’t,” Mike assures her, “I promise.”_

_“Do you think it’s weird?” Nancy asks, looking at him sideways, her lips drawn tightly together in anticipation of his response. For a reason she’s not quite sure she understands, Mike’s opinion matters to her—more than anyone else’s. She hopes he doesn’t ask questions, because she’d probably be unable to answer them—does she love one more than the other? Does she ever want to get married? Is this just a phase, something exciting and forbidden? Or is it real and permanent? All good questions, no good answers; at least not in her head. Thankfully, Mike spares her the inquiries._

_“Yeah, it’s weird,” Mike replies with a shrug, “But so is the fact that my girlfriend is basically Jean Grey and that we spend our summers fighting monsters. We’ve just gotta face it—the Wheeler kids are weirdos.” A small laugh escapes his lips and Nancy smiles widely._

_“Not Holly,” she says by way of correcting him. Mike shakes his head, his dark hair—more unruly than ever—waving in the breeze that blows over the fire escape._

_“She’s still young. Give her time.” Both siblings descend into laughter and when it subsides, they fall into a comfortable silence. Mike picks up his bottle of Coke and takes a quick swig before offering the bottle to Nancy. She accepts and takes a sip._

_“So, are you and Elle…?” Nancy’s voice trails off as she places the bottle down gently between them. She’s concerned—wants to make sure that her brother knows what he needs to know, about how to stay safe and how to properly treat Elle, even though she’s fairly certain he’d rather die than do anything that would hurt her._

_“No!” Mike says, louder than he intends, his cheeks turning bright red. At Nancy’s raised eyebrows, Mike draws his face into a mask of seriousness. “No. We’re not.” His words are firm, emphatic._

\--- 

The first rays of sun are just beginning to break over the horizon, spilling soft hues of orange and red against the dark sky—that special kind of inky blue darkness that exists only just before dawn. Leaning against the hood of Mike’s car, Eleven’s attention is focused solely on the sky, her eyes wide with wonder as she watches the sun come up slowly over the tops of the evergreens. Mike’s arm is wrapped firmly, protectively, around her waist, his fingers toying with the hem of the flannel button-up she’s wearing. 

Moments like these happen as often as Mike can possibly make them happen—which is not often enough while they’re in Hawkins. Not with him living at home and Elle living with Joyce and Hopper, officially adopted into the family. Elle Hopper, supernatural stepsister to Will and Jonathan, daughter of the police chief, was a difficult girl to get alone, especially any time when it was dark. 

Joyce, Karen, and Hopper had all tried to suggest other names to her throughout the adoption process—Elena, Elise, Elsie—but Elle had remained adamant. Her name was the one she had received on the day she escaped the lab; they day her life had really started. Mike didn’t mind this at all; in fact, he felt a swell of pride in his chest every time she corrected someone (mostly Dustin) who accidentally called her Eleven. 

“Why the sunrise?” Mike asks suddenly. He’s always wanted to know, ever since last summer’s battle—which he’d still rather forget—when Elle had asked him to stay awake with her to watch the sun come up. Ever since last autumn when Hopper almost caught him sneaking Elle back in through her bedroom window after they had sat on the grass behind the Byers’s house and watched the rays peek through the dark clouds. And now, since she’s spent every summer morning waking before dawn, poking him out of bed to join her on Nancy’s fire escape. 

“I spent too many years in the dark,” Eleven answers simply, her hand moving to cover his, still by her waist, “I want to see all the light I can.” The answer makes Mike smile, makes him almost blush for having had to ask it. 

“You’re really special, you know that, right Elle?” 

She turns towards him, the corners of her lips upturned, her heart beating so forcefully against her chest she wonders if Mike can hear it. She remembers the words he shyly muttered to her after kissing a drop of ice cream off her nose on his birthday last year, words that they’ve exchanged fewer times than she can count on one hand since then, but each time causing her to feel lighter and freer than she could have ever believed possible. 

“IloveyouMike.” The words come out quickly, jumbled, syllables collapsing in on one another. Mike grins and pulls her closer, both hands now gently, tentatively, resting on her waist. 

“IloveyoutooElle.” He echoes her sentiment, teasing her in a manner reserved only for him. Pushing herself onto her tiptoes, the edges of her flip-flops grinding into the gravel of the parking lot, Elle places a careful kiss on Mike’s lips. He returns the gesture, deepening it ever so slightly, heat rushing to his cheeks. 

Mike feels the familiar weightlessness that accompanies every kiss; the feeling that befalls him every time his lips touch Elle’s. Except this time, the gauziness of his body seems less abstract—more tangible. Mike opens his eyes and realizes he’s somehow become horizontal, his legs floating out behind him, leaving him anchored to the Earth only by Elle’s soft lips and the hands that are slowly sliding off her waist as he drifts higher into the air. 

“Hey Elle,” he grins, moving his mouth away from hers, “Could you maybe...?”

Elle’s eyes shoot open, a horrified expression crossing her face, and Mike falls unceremoniously down to the Earth. She’s by his side, kneeling, in a moment, knees scraping against the gravel, but she doesn’t care. 

“I’m sorry,” she says embarrassedly. Mike shakes his head and untangles his long legs, sitting up. 

“I’m fine,” Mike laughs good-naturedly. He pulls Elle down so that she is seated next to him, her legs crossed. After another apology and further insistence that he survived his fall, Elle rests her head against Mike’s shoulder.

“You know I didn’t kill it, right?” Elle sighs after a moment of silence, her eyes deliberately set on the trunks of the trees they face. Mike knows what she’s talking about—the thing he’d rather forget. 

“Yeah, but that’s okay,” he assures her, “If it ever comes here again, we’ll get it.”

“Thank you, Mike.” She smiles as he wraps her hand in his, running his thumb delicately across her knuckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End! 
> 
> Or is it?! I may write an alternate ending (full of delicious angst) or continue the story from here. Let me know what you think/what you want. 
> 
> Comments & feedback are, as always, appreciated. Thanks for continuing to read.
> 
> Cheers,  
> Val <3


End file.
